


Fairytale

by Gemma_Inkyboots, raisedbymoogles



Series: Alt-Vos Saga [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: But is rather touched, Cross-cultural, Jazz is an adorably stubborn dork, M/M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Prowl doesn't know what to even, Psychopomps, Romance, Sparkeaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-04 04:43:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6641830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemma_Inkyboots/pseuds/Gemma_Inkyboots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/pseuds/raisedbymoogles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz wasn't looking for anything in particular when he came to Praxus, but that doesn't mean he didn't find a whole list of strange things. Sparklings, fliers, funky crystals, archivists, goodies he totally wants the recipe for - and a quiet, shy mech with doorwings and white optics.</p><p>Also a sparkeater. That part he could have done without.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is going to slot into Crown of Cybertron in some very obvious places, and fill in some gaps that were left in the bigger story. If you recognise some of the situations and dialogue here, you'll be able to pick out where. ;) We'll be updating every two weeks with Fairytale instead of weekly, so we can try and make some headway on the absolute monster Megatron and Orion's fic is turning out to be. >_>

And to think he’d thought Praxus would be a drag. Jazz wandered along Praxus’ streets, glittering with lights and alive with joy, and let it all soak in.

Iacon, now _that_ had been a drag - the people were all right, wonderfully creative with their fuel mixes and enjoying a dry sense of humor that could set Jazz howling - but he’d swear on his creator’s workshop there were “No Fun Allowed!” signs on every street corner, and the less said about the Towers-adjacent areas the better. Jazz had visited Iacon thinking the Prime’s officiation ceremony was going to be _fun_ , going on what he’d heard of the mech thus far; all right, barrels of high grade and confetti might’ve been pushing it expectations-wise, but he’d expected more joy and less - well - pomp and ceremony than he’d gotten, and had retreated back to Polyhex in a huff. Ricochet had teased him about dodging work only to go wind up tangled in even more red tape, even after Jazz had been and gone and managed to find them a new dancer and everything while he was in Iacon, which clearly meant that Jazz was about due a _real_ holiday.

Spending the Treks somewhere he’d never been fit the bill just perfect. Praxus, for all life proceeded at a more sedate pace than he was used to, was far more relaxed. Had to do with the Temple being the cultural center of the city, he’d read, but he’d just have to take the travel guide’s word on that. It’d be a bright day in the Underdark before anyone’d catch Jazz setting pede in a temple to Primus! Or to any god, really, but aside from some distinctly odd enclaves here and there Primus was pretty much the only game in town.

So here he was: working his way through a succession of multicolored Praxian fuel mixes, flirting with everyone in range, and hopping into any open hall he chose to dance whenever the mood struck, and having a fantastic time. And this was only one street in a whole city of celebrating! Just wait ‘til Ric heard about how much fun Jazz was having while Ricochet was still stuck in Polyhex running the club they’d established together. Poor sap. Jazz spun through the motions of the Praxian circle dance he’d just learned, split with the other dancers to find a partner right on cue, and found himself face to face with the most transcendently gorgeous mechanism he’d ever seen in his life.

_(“No lie, Ric,” he wrote later. “Maybe it was the lights in the club or something, but he actually looked like he was glowing.”)_

The mech gave him a shy smile that did something to his internals that Jazz had previously dismissed as romance-novel exaggeration - the air seemed to leave his vents entirely; his processor stalled out. His partner held up a hand, palm towards him, and Jazz met it with his own in a daze. The mech’s plating was so smooth, glossy white against his party-smudged black; the touch made his partner shiver. Maybe he was a medic, to have such sensitive hands?

“Well, hey,” he managed as they began to move - left turn, right turn, their left hands pressed palms together and pedes flicking side to side. Mech was certainly light on his pedes. “Come here often?”

Okay, it wasn’t one of his best lines, but it earned him another smile and a flutter of the Praxian’s doorwings. “Sometimes,” he said softly. “I work in Praxus, but I am - very rarely able to socialise.”

Now that piqued Jazz’s curiousity, but not so much that he wanted to waste time asking about it. “Then I’m one lucky mech,” he grinned, and the Praxian actually blushed. “M’name’s Jazz. What’s yours?”

“Prowl,” came the reply, and Jazz beamed. Turn, turn, and they faced each other again, and this time Prowl spoke first, though it was a little halting, as though he chose his words with care. “May I ask where you hail from?”

“Polyhex most recently,” Jazz grinned. “I’ve been all over, though. Last visit was Iacon.”

“Ah.” Prowl looked momentarily stuck, but rallied. “I have rarely left Praxus. It sounds… interesting.”

“I think everyone should get a chance to travel,” Jazz replied, his grin lingering. “See the world. Expands your perspective, y’ know? You’d be amazed the things you can learn.”

“I… see.” Now Prowl looked faintly wistful, the glow of his striking white optics and the glow of his plating matching perfectly. “Well - what do you think of Praxus? What have you learned?”

“That there’s a very good-lookin’ mechanism here,” Jazz grinned cheerfully, and Prowl went over all flustered but didn’t withdraw from him. There was even a smile showing at the corner of his mouth, and Jazz took that as encouragement. “Wanna grab a drink with me? My treat.”

“I…” Prowl faltered, all out of step with the dance, and Jazz paused with him, more in tune with Prowl than with the music. “...I would like that,” the Praxian said at last, quietly determined, and Jazz took his hand and led him off the dance floor.

And thus the two of them upheld an often-commented-on Praxian tradition - that these dances always ended with fewer people than they started with.

*

Prowl didn’t let go of Jazz’s hand. They wound their way out of the circle of dancers and through the crowds with Jazz leading the way, Prowl’s fingers curling close around his; now and again a Praxian in the throng of people would blink and stare as they passed, but Jazz was too caught up in finding the best way to the refreshments to notice.

Jazz had chosen this particular open hall entirely at random; he had simply started walking along with the celebrants following the parade and peered down every side-street along the way when he heard a tune that caught his audial. This was one of the bigger street parties Jazz had seen - whether it was business or residential during the rest of the orn Jazz couldn’t tell - and the long open-air bar serving drinks and all kinds of goodies fitted along the entire length of one of the angled walls. With the amount of people circulating, that was definitely a good thing.

“So, see anything you like?” he asked, turning back to Prowl with a cheerfully flirty grin; his visor glinted the innuendo, but Prowl seemed too busy giving Jazz a wistfully content sort of look to pick up on it. The Praxian actually blurted static at Jazz catching his expression, and Jazz just couldn’t _even_ at that amount of adorable.

“I, ah.” Prowl ducked his head and busied himself resettling his hand in Jazz’s, which both made Jazz revise his estimate of Prowl’s age - medical _student,_ maybe? - and made him want to squeak. “I have no preference. I will happily try anything you choose.”

Gorgeous, kind of cute and a bit old fashioned. Not something Jazz had ever thought he’d be into, but - well - awwww.

“Sure thing,” he said easily, and didn’t miss how Prowl’s doors perked up at his non-reaction. _Awww, someone’s new at this._

Jazz picked out a couple things he hadn’t tried yet, one bright green half-size cube with silver shavings on top and the other swirled pink and orange. “Whichever one you wanna try first,” he grinned, offering them both to Prowl, and Prowl’s doorwings fluttered a bit as he smiled back.

“I have never had either one,” he said, and accepted the green cube Jazz offered. “As I said, I have never done much socializing.”

“Work?” Jazz asked sympathetically.

Prowl nodded. “It is very - fulfilling work. But it keeps me a little isolated.” He sipped at the cube, and surprised pleasure blushed through his field sweet and unfeigned. “...oh. That is good.” He smiled faintly again and Jazz had to quickly take a drink of his own cube to stop himself from squeaking. Because seriously, _how so adorable._

“Are you enjoying yourself so far?” he prodded gently. “Think you’ll be up for more socializin’ sometime?”

Prowl smiled sadly. “I wish I could. I am certainly enjoying the company.”

This time Jazz really did squeak. Flirting back! The pretty-glowy Praxian was flirting back! “Aww, thank ya,” he grinned. “I’m sure enjoying the company too. Wouldja mind if we exchanged comm codes?” Prowl faltered, the half-full cube nearly slipping from his hand. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Jazz amended quickly, kicking himself - he was sure he’d been reading the signals right!

“I… well…” Prowl didn’t look quite sure of himself, but he spelled out a comm code, and Jazz offered his own. And then he didn’t say anything else about it for the rest of the night, which appeared to do the trick. Before long Prowl was smiling again, even tentatively flirting back, and Jazz was in heaven.

They wound up walking past the parade route and into one of the smaller crystal gardens that were everywhere in Praxus. Somehow Prowl had managed to point them to the single unoccupied garden in the city - that, or they were amazingly lucky that they hadn’t bumped into anyone else yet. Either way, Jazz didn’t care. Prowl was the quiet type, sure - seemed kind of awkward and inexperienced, maybe a little shy, not a lot to say about himself, but he seemed genuinely interested in Jazz as a person, and the places he’d never seen. They found a secluded clearing in the crystals with a thoughtfully provided bench and talked until Jazz had lost track of time entirely, though he got the feeling that Prowl had never quite been able to manage the same.

“Hey,” he said during one of the conversation’s comfortable pauses. “Y’know, I’m gonna be in Praxus for a while...” He hadn’t made much in the way of a plan about that, but what the frag, Ric knew not to expect him until he commed to say he was heading back. “You wanna meet up again while I’m here? Plenty more dancin’ for the Trek o’the Awoken, I hear, an’ I’m havin’ a real good time tonight.”

Prowl didn’t answer right away, and Jazz’s spark fluttered in dismay when he saw the mech’s resigned expression.

“I would like that very much,” he said softly, that old-fashioned burr making his Praxian accent sound like something from another world entirely. “I had a wonderful time with you, Jazz, please never doubt that, but - I am simply unable to make any promises past tonight. My time here is running short as it is.”

That… sounded ominous, and Jazz had to dismiss the fleeting thought that he was in one of those overdramatic holovids where the heroes had just enough time to fall in love before one of them died in the other’s arms of a persistent rust infection. _Slag that._ “It’s okay,” Jazz answered, as gently as he could. “I know what it’s like t’ not be able to make any promises. I promise I won’t be a pest.”

“That is not my cause for concern, I promise you,” Prowl grimaced. “I just would not want you to be hurt. I really am enjoying my time with you. But I think you deserve to like someone who will not flicker out of your life like - like a wandering spark.”

“Hey.” Jazz gathered Prowl’s hand in both of his. “It’s the Trek of the Homeless. T’night belongs to wanderin’ sparks.”

His hand was cool, and it might have been the night but Jazz thought he could feel a faint hum of energy against his palms. Prowl himself looked almost awed, staring at their joined hands. “And their guides,” he managed, voice almost a whisper.

“Sounds like fun,” Jazz grinned. “Can you guide me?”

Prowl looked at him fully then, his optics bright with amusement and fondness and - Jazz could hope! - unspent charge. “I think, in this metaphor, you are the one to guide me.”

...well. That was an opening if Jazz had ever heard one, and he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t take it. He leaned in slowly, visor dimming, and felt Prowl’s body startle in surprise as he kissed the Praxian on the mouth. He didn’t linger long, pulling back gently without letting go of Prowl’s hand and checking Prowl’s expression; going by the dazed look and how his optics had to flicker back to full brightness, that hadn’t been unwelcome. Still, Jazz was a gentlemech, and he really, really wanted to do this right.

“Howzat for a start?” he murmured, giving Prowl’s hand an encouraging squeeze. Hazy white optics re-focussed on his face, and for a moment Prowl looked at him like Jazz was the brightest thing in the universe.

“Oh,” Prowl breathed, soft and almost reverent. His free hand lifted halfway to his mouth, then reached out to brush shy fingertips over Jazz’s cheek. Jazz turned into the caress with no hesitation whatsoever, shivering a little at the tingle smoothed into his plating. “That... I must leave soon, Jazz, that I cannot change, but...”

“I’d like ta kiss y’ some more,” Jazz said gently when the Praxian hesitated, visibly torn. “You don’t got time for more than that, a kiss or two’s more than enough for me. ‘S a good way t’say hello _and_ goodbye.”

Prowl smiled at that, a small and wondering smile that trembled slightly at the edges. “Then yes. I would - I would very much like to kiss you, until I have to go.”

Jazz beamed. This time he let Prowl lean in for his kiss, gripping their hands together. His mouth was cool and sweet on Jazz’s own, almost tentative at first but growing bolder as Jazz purred encouragement.

Jazz was of the firm belief that no one was inherently _bad_ at kissing. Unskilled, sure - they were all unskilled once. Capable of _kissing badly,_ that was another thing entirely - if you had bad intentions or weren’t paying attention to your partner’s signals, then your partner wasn’t gonna have much fun no matter how good you were. Jazz thought of himself as a great kisser: highly skilled, highly attentive, a perfect gentlemech in all ways.

Prowl was leaving him quickly in the dust. His mouth melded perfectly with Jazz’s, sweetly exploring, leaving his shyness behind him. Jazz felt himself falling into it and did absolutely nothing to brace himself. Prowl was worth losing his spark to, Jazz was sure.

Prowl was the first to pull back, though he didn’t pull far. His optics were bright as he asked tentatively, “How was that?”

Jazz rebooted his vocalizer. “That was… Wow.”

“...wow?” Prowl’s smile was returning. “I have never been called that before.”

“High time, then,” Jazz confirmed, and pecked a kiss to the corner of that smile. “Way past time.”

The rest of the Trek cycle was spent trading long, sweet kisses, Prowl growing in confidence with Jazz acting as his guide, but all too soon he pulled back and left regret lingering on Jazz’s lips.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly, but Jazz shook his head. 

“‘S okay. I get it, Trek don’t last forever.” He gave Prowl a rueful smile, tilting his helm and reaching out to run his hands down Prowl’s arms; the Praxian shivered and let out a soft, longing sound, rocking forwards the tiniest bit as though he wanted to curl into Jazz’s side and to the Pit with whatever work he had waiting. Self control won out, and Prowl’s bright optics were downcast as he straightened up.

“Hey. Next time you got some free time, comm me. Okay? No way I’m gonna miss the chance to do this again.” One hand still resting on Prowl’s gauntlet, Jazz raised the other to nudge lightly against Prowl’s cheek. “This was real nice, an’ I don’t say that much.”

That prompted a smile, if a small one, and Prowl tilted his helm to Jazz’s hand like he honestly couldn’t help himself. Warmed a mech’s spark, it really did. “I will...try. I swear that I will try, but it may be a long time before I am able. I truly have very little time that is my own. ...be well, Jazz. And thank you. Thank you for an - an unforgettable Trek.”

Prowl bobbed in for one more swift kiss, then squeezed Jazz’s hands one last time before hurrying to the edge of their little clearing, pausing just long enough to look back at Jazz as though the Praxian were committing his face to long-term storage...and then he was gone.

Jazz let out a slow vent, canting his head back to stare up at the stars overhead. “Yeah,” he murmured, a faint smile playing over his face. “You too.”

*

“-whaddya mean y’all don’t know a Prowl?”

The Temple receptionist on the other end of the connection sounded neither baffled nor apologetic. “There is no record of anyone named Prowl on our staff roll, either among the priest-Enforcers or the support workers.”

“C’mon, look again.” Jazz paced a little in the small temporary quarters he was renting. “He’s gotta be on there. This is the comm code he gave me.”

There was a slight pause. “Sir, I hate to say this, but have you considered the possibility that this ‘Prowl’ gave you a fake comm code?”

“He - what?” Jazz shook his head. “No, trust me, he wouldn’t do that.” Would he? Was he just after one night of fun? He’d enjoyed the kissing, he’d been reluctant to leave… why fake that? “Look, maybe you’ve seen the guy. Black and white paint-”

“All of the priests are in black and white, sir.”

“With white optics. And markings all over his plating - math stuff, I think. Divine equations, I dunno.”

There was a longer pause. “Sir, I hate to say this-”

“Don’t y’ dare, mech.”

“...but I think you had an encounter with a psychopomp.”

Jazz nearly dropped the connection out of sheer surprise. “...you wanna run that by me again?”

“A psychopomp, sir. There’s very little I can tell you that won’t be on public record somewhere, but if you’d like I can try to put you through to a chronicler who may have more information for you?”

“I - I guess, sure. Go for it.” 

“One moment, please.” There was a pause, then a click, then soft, inoffensive music began to play over the comm. Jazz stared at the wall in bewilderment - was that an ode to Primus? Seriously? - and slumped down on the room’s narrow berth. Of all the things he’d been expecting from this comm call- well, he’d mostly been expecting surprise and potentially an I’m-working delay, but now he wasn’t at all sure whether he was online or in some kind of recharge dream. As he waited, he dragged out a datapad and hooked into Praxus’ worldnet to find some of that public-record stuff the Temple mech had mentioned.

It turned out he wasn’t kidding. There actually was a not-insignificant section on the Praxus ‘net about psychopomps - under ‘Symbolism and the Trek of the Homeless’. By the time the music stopped playing, Jazz had read the articles with growing skepticism and was fast working on an increasingly bad mood.

“I apologise for the wait, sir. I can put you through to Archivist Collodion now-”

“The frag,” Jazz burst out. “I’m lookin’ for a real live mech, not a superstition!”

The receptionist on the other end of the comm didn’t reply for a moment, and his voice was rather cool as he replied. “In that case, sir, I should definitely put you through to the Archivist. One moment please.”

Jazz’s engine snarled, but the comm clicked again as he was transferred before he could say anything else he might regret later. A smooth, slightly hollow-sounding voice spoke next; “Greetings, child of Primus. How may I help you?”

“Sorry, mech, but I really ain’t sure,” Jazz said flatly. “I called in tryin’ ta find a mech I met last night as gave me the Temple number for a contact, an’ now they tell me he’s some kinda dead mech. I got no clue how y’all can help with that kinda story.”

“Well, last night _was_ the Trek of the Homeless,” the Archivist pointed out, gentle amusement echoing his voice which only further soured Jazz’s mood. “It’s entirely possible you did meet a wandering spark.”

“Don’t. Seriously, don’t. I don’t believe in that scrap, okay?” Jazz waved his hand uselessly in the air. “I _kissed_ this mech your colleague thinks is a psychopomp. That wasn’t some - some delusion.”

“Did you now.” Jazz could practically hear the old archivist’s optic ridges go up. “He’s never done that before, to my knowledge.”

“So y’ _do_ know him!” Now they were getting somewhere.

“Naturally. If you and I are truly speaking of the same individual, he’s been the city’s psychopomp for longer than I’ve been sparked.”

...aaand right back to square zero. “Mech, please don’t do this to me,” Jazz groaned, turning over on the berth. “If he doesn’t wanna see me again, then say so, but don’t play this game with me.”

Collodion hummed into the connection, thoughtful. “What is your name, child of Primus?”

“Jazz, and I’m nobody’s child.”

“I see.” The fondness in the mech’s voice didn’t endear Jazz to him at all. “Well, then, Jazz, can you meet me here in the Temple’s archives tomorrow? Say, on-cycle plus point five. I would like to hear more about this person you met, and see if we have any descriptions that match yours.”

“...sure.” He wasn’t in enough of a bad mood to burn any bridges that might lead him to Prowl. “Am I gonna need a security code to get in?”

“Good heavens, no. Whatever for?”

“Well - you just let any random stranger wander in?”

Collodion’s smile was audible over the comm line. “Well, it’s the random strangers who generally need our help, so it wouldn’t do us any good to keep them from entering.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jazz does some investigating and becomes that which he most fears - a tourist.
> 
> On the other hand, he also meets a Vosian, an Archivist, an Enforcer-Priest...and another psychopomp.

Every road in Praxus led to the main Temple, or so the saying went, and Jazz was less than enthused. He’d never planned on finding himself funnelled into a Temple, let alone the biggest one in Praxus, but just look at him now. Standing on one of the quieter roads leading up to the Temple’s expansive foyer and glaring at the building as though it had personally offended him. Jazz squinted dubiously up at the Temple of Primus ahead of him, folding his arms and cocking his helm as though he could Disapprove it down into something less big and shiny. Every street he’d walked-driven-stomped down was rapidly filling with polished and painted Praxians loading tables with goodies and treats for the Trek of the Awoken - apparently here it was the planet’s biggest buffet, dancing taking second place to spending time chatting with friends and neighbours, and everyone bringing piles of treats out into one big street party to share. Ordinarily Jazz would be right there with bells on, but right now he was too fragged off even to be tempted. 

Letting out an explosive hiss of hot air from every vent in his frame, ignoring the tables in various stages of being set up and those already heaving with every kind of goodies imaginable in his pique, Jazz stomped across the concourse in front of the building and into the Temple itself. 

To his surprise, the main foyer was bright, open and - well - efficient, rather than ecclesiastical. The ceiling arched high overhead, buttressed by solid pillars and uplit by crystal growths; the floor was a sensible, durable matte material that could handle a tank scuffing their pedes without leaving much of a scratch. The reception desk was right in front of Jazz as he entered, with several mechs in black and white answering questions and fielding comm calls; the Temple was built in the round, and the foyer stretched off to either side on a gentle curve with the inner wall dotted with doors, the majority of which having their own broad, deep benches that narrowed down from something that could handle a shuttle to a seat comfortable enough for a minibot. It was, in fact, remarkably unlike what Jazz had been expecting, as formless as those expectations had been.

“More like an Enforcer station than a Temple after all,” he muttered to himself, then struck out determinedly for the reception desk.

The receptionist who spotted him first also appeared to be expecting him. “Archivist Collodion? You must be his appointment. Please follow me.”

“Um - sure.” Jazz had been braced for an interrogation; the complete lack of it left him windmilling for balance. He followed the mech deeper into the Temple, all too aware of the other mech’s sleek lines as he trailed along behind them - a flier rather than the standard Praxian model, if his optics could be trusted, and frankly Jazz was starting to wonder.

“So...where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” he prodded.

“Vos, originally,” the flier answered, briefly but politely. “I’ve been living in Praxus for some time now.”

“Huh. That’s a long way.” Jazz caught up with her enough to see her expression. “You, uh, don’t feel closed-in, living in a grounder city?”

The Vosian smiled faintly. “Maybe, sometimes, but you know Praxus isn’t really a ‘grounder city.’ Not like, say, Iacon. There’s a lot more open sky than you’d think at first. And the people are very kind.”

So saying, the receptionist ushered him into a room full of server towers surrounding a row of display tables: the Records Room, clearly. Seated at the near table was a mech of advanced years and slightly faded black-and-white paint, old-style facial appendages proudly decorating his lower face. “Archivist,” the receptionist called, “your appointment is here.”

“Ah, thank you, Mimic.” Collodion stood, offering a hand for Jazz to clasp. “And thank you for coming, Jazz. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Um… yeah.” Jazz blinked at their clasped hands. “So, got anything for me about Prowl?”

Mimic tactfully slipped out before the Archivist could glance her way; a soft amber ‘engaged’ glyph glowed as the door closed behind her, Jazz glancing back a little uneasily as the door slid shut and left him alone with the Archivist.

“I have indeed, youngmech. Now, let me see - is this the person you met on the Trek?”

Collodion handed Jazz a datapad, somewhat worn around the edges from vorns of use; Jazz glanced at the display and brightened at once. “Yeah - yeah, that’s him! Looks like a real old picture, though...”

“That would be because it is.” Collodion took the datapad back and tapped briefly at the screen before handing it back. “The picture I just showed you was a still from a memory file - I have the file itself loaded up here for you. I believe this may help answer some of your questions.”

Jazz took the datapad back, more reluctantly this time, and poked the screen with a fingertip. This was certainly not what he’d been expecting, and he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to see-

_What the slag was that supposed to be._

He squinted, rewound the clip, dialled up the contrast on his visor, and hit play again. A grainy video feed began to play - it looked like the person who the memory had belonged to was booting up as fast as they could for one reason or another, and the resulting feed was sparkly and pixelated as frag to begin with. What must have been a reboot cleared some of the static, and a familiar face blurred into clarity - Prowl looked down into the memory-mech’s face, his expression grave and concerned. Jazz’s spark fluttered, then he scowled at the screen as Prowl’s mouth moved and what sounded like utter gobbledegook came out. The memory-Prowl bent down and - he must have kissed the other mech’s forehead or something, from the angle and the fine view of Prowl’s throat Jazz was getting, and then-

Jazz jumped and almost dropped the datapad. “What the frag,” he burst out; Collodion’s mouth quirked wryly under his facial modifications. “This thing must be glitched.”

“Not in the least,” Collodion replied. “That memory is as clear and as accurate now as the day it was made. The mech who it belonged to almost offlined in the Temple medbay; when she came online, he was the psychopomp she saw. He had been standing watch in case her spark left her frame.”

“No way. That - that’s impossible. It had ta be glitched, it looked like he was talking but that weird stuff came out.”

“That was the Primal Vernacular, I’m afraid. I can tell you what he said, if you’d like, or I can find you a translator-”

“No, just - thank you.” Jazz pulled cool air through his vents and tried his hardest not to snap at the mech. “What did he say?”

Collodion only smiled at him again. “He said, ‘Be well, child of Primus. Thou’rt safe and loved.’”

Jazz slid down in his seat, defeat closing around him. “I can’t believe this.”

“I know this must be hard to accept-”

Jazz cut the oldmech off with a gesture. “No, I mean I _literally_ can’t believe this. I’ve never - really been the religious type.” He brought a hand to his face, rubbing his temples as he reined in his temper. The pixelated memory capture of the mech on the datapad floated before his optical band, silently haunting. “Primus, what a mess,” he muttered.

“I’m sure he never meant to cause you distress,” Collodion offered gently.

“Well, he did.” Jazz leaned his head back, staring helplessly at the blank ceiling. “ ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.”

*

_“You… fell in love with a ghost?”_

“Doncha dare laugh,” Jazz growled, but Ricochet’s amusement couldn’t be hidden even over an audio-only connection. “He sure kissed like he was solid.”

 _“Well, it_ was _the Trek…”_

“If you knew how sick I was of hearin’ that-”

 _“Okay, okay. Sorry, bro. You gotta admit, it’s like a holovid melodrama, though. Star-crossed lovers and all.”_ Ricochet wasn’t being _any_ help at all, and Jazz groaned into his berth, frustration and spark-sickness swirling through him. _“What do you think you’ll do?”_

Jazz laughed humorlessly. “Mech, I got _no_ idea.”

_“What about trying some of that research? You said that guy was an archivist - and you found stuff on the worldnet, right? Can’t hurt to do some of your own lookin’, surely.”_

“I guess, but what’s th’point? Ain’t like this kinda story ends with bondin’ and happy ever afters, Ric.” Jazz twisted his hips and rolled over on the berth, staring up at the ceiling but seeing nothing. “Ain’t even sure what I’d say to’m now.”

_“Think ‘bout that after you find a way to talk to’m again, huh? Come on, Jazz, ain’t like you to give up when something weird happens. Doncha wanna ask him questions now?”_

“Well...yeah. Yeah, I do. Not ta mention shake him silly for not talkin’ to me, if I even can.” 

_“So? Go on an’ do it, then! Not like I was expecting you home any time soon.”_

Ricochet’s voice was warm and fond over the comm, and Jazz couldn’t help smiling. He bounced to sit upright on the berth with new determination, dragging the datapad he’d used before over to himself; he’d left the tags on psychopomps and symbolism open, though more through disbelief and annoyance than any idea that they might actually be useful. He paged through them now, glance darting over the glyphs.

“Y’know what, Ric? I reckon I will. ...thanks, bro. Don’t wait up.”

*

For the rest of that cycle, Jazz did something he had never done before - he deliberately and knowingly walked into a Temple to Primus with the intent to Learn Stuff. The travel guide that he’d picked up was actually pretty helpful there; he’d read through the guide and a few other things after his comm call to Ricochet, and he’d grabbed a downloadable map that he saved to his datapad and promptly scrawled all over. Jazz had a _plan,_ mechs.

Said plan started with the smaller satellite temples, poking through their archives and peering at the many examples of light sculpture and mosaic art. Most of the art pieces depicted Primus the Creator, forming new sparks from his own self, but here and there Jazz found depictions of psychopomps: most often one with a Praxian frame. That, he supposed, was supposed to be Prowl. Or someone similar. It didn’t hit him until he was asking a docent about the age of a particular mosaic that the credit dropped: he was officially acting like a tourist. _Slag it._

One odd thing he noticed was that the smaller temples also appeared to do double duty as Enforcer stations. “Of course,” one of the priests told him when he asked, looking like he got this question all the time, and yeah, just paint a great big ‘I’m With The Group, If Found Please Return To The Tour Guide’ on Jazz’s back. “We are Shield and Guardian to Primus’s sparks in Praxus. The role encompasses duties common to both priests, Enforcers, and surrogate carriers in other cities.”

“Not seein’ a lot of commonality between them,” Jazz frowned, “but, sure, I can roll with - wait. Did you just say surrogate carriers?”

“You know.” The priest cradled the air under his bumper. “Sparklings.”

“I know what a sparkling is, mech, just - _why?_ ”

The priest looked faintly puzzled. “Why to which part? Many of the enforcer-priests you will meet in Praxus are carriers - it isn’t a requirement, of course, and the carriers who do sign on don’t have to use their gift unless they choose to.”

Jazz stared. “Y’mean there’s _lots_ o’carriers here?”

“I’m not sure about _lots,_ exactly, but certainly the majority of us are carry-capable. We are some distance from Vector Sigma, and there is a certain pleasure from creating a newspark from yourself and your partners. We follow Primus the Creator above the other aspects.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Jazz shook his helm quickly, not at all sure whether he was standing on his head or his heels. “I guess I mean - why wouldja carry for other people? Do people just sign up, say they want two sparklings by next orn...”

The priest laughed, which did nothing for Jazz’s confusion or his growing irritation with this weird city. “No! Well, not quite. There is a contracting process to go through first - any prospective sparkers will need to agree to care for the little ones they create regardless of what happens in their relationship in the future, for one thing. Then they are paired with a priest who is due for a carrying term, and they meet to see if they mesh - there’s no point in trying to build a rapport with someone you don’t at least get along with.”

“Right,” Jazz muttered, and glazed over for more of the explanation that he would, no doubt, be replaying in his head later to try and fit it into his worldview. Never let it be said there was nothing new in the world to learn...

“I haven’t carried myself before, but Redline over there is one of our medics - he’s just come back from a rest term after his carrying term, so he would probably be the best person to speak to if you had questions.”

Jazz muttered something vaguely polite and affirmative to the priest, and wandered away to put his processor back on straight.

*

Jazz was starting to think he was getting old. There was a time when he could blend in with any population, make friends with anybody and be at home no matter where he was. But Praxus had stymied him.

He knew who to blame, too. If he hadn’t gotten himself all twisted in knots over Prowl… but he had, and there it was, and he knew better than to lie to himself about it. The only cure would be to see Prowl again, at least hear it from the mech’s own mouth that there was no point in pursuing him - but Jazz didn’t want to wait until the next Trek of the Homeless to see him again.

They weren’t happy thoughts swirling around in his head, and Jazz headed back to the building he was staying at in a most unJazzlike funk. He tried to avoid the rest of the crowd in the lobby, but one of the porters stopped him as he started to summon a lift to his floor. “Excuse me, are you Jazz?”

“Huh? Yeah, that’s me.” Jazz summoned up a smile. “I’m pretty sure I’m all paid up for the next-”

“Oh, no sir,” the porter said quickly. “Everything’s fine with your account, I mean, as far as I know. It’s just that there’s a parcel for you.”

“Huh. That’s weird.” Jazz followed the porter to the back room anyway, and received a thin, broad box to take with him back to his quarters. A cutting multitool made quick work of the box, and Jazz lifted off the lid to see what was inside.

“...Ric, you slagger.”

His darling twin had sent him a Polyhexian _Homeless_ game, one from the kind of Trek nights where everyone was aiming to scare themselves strutless. Jazz shook his head and dropped the box on his berth with a rattling thump; he briefly debated comming Ricochet and giving him an audial-full for it, but he’d had a long enough day that he really couldn’t be bothered. His pedes hurt, he’d taken in more information than he even wanted to think about and the sweet, shy mech he’d met only a few cycles ago seemed like a dream. What Jazz wanted right now was a hot, steamy washrack and a good cube, then a decent bout of recharge. The world could go back to making sense afterwards.

Some time later, Jazz had at least managed the shower and wax and his tank was full, but recharge kept on eluding him. He lay flat on his back on the narrow rented berth, staring up at the ceiling in the dark with only his thoughts to distract himself with, then let out a growl and threw himself off the berth in disgust. “Lights!”

Slaggit, if he couldn’t wind his processor down to get some recharge, he might as well poke at his notes. Jazz pulled out his datapad and stuck the end of the attached stylus into his mouth as he read and scrolled - then scrolled back up and re-read the glyphs that hadn’t quite sunk in on the first read, then scrolled back a little higher to get the context he’d missed, and-

“ _Aaagh!_ Fraggit!” 

The datapad bounced off the end of the berth and landed on something that let out a hollow-sounding _thump._ That - hadn’t been the floor. Jazz doubled up and peered over the edge of the berth, aft in the air like an enquiring youngling and glad Ric wasn’t here to see this. The datapad had landed on the stupid _Homeless_ game, still in its box where he’d pushed it off the berth when he went to recharge.

....well, if he couldn’t recharge and he couldn’t focus on his scribbles...

Jazz grabbed for the edge of the box, datapad sliding down onto the floor and forgotten, and made an undignified scrambling retreat back onto the berth. He plomped down cross-legged with the box in its lap and gave it a quick once-over - not a bad set, from the looks of things. Most _Homeless_ games were cheap little things sold for quick thrills on the Trek of the Homeless or to spook whoever you wanted to entice into your berth, or went 180 in the opposite direction and were priceless antiques handed down through the vorns by real-believer enthusiasts. This looked like it was on the better end of the cheap-thrill spectrum - thanks for that at least, Ric.

“...ehh, why the frag not.” Jazz shrugged, settled himself down on the floor, and pressed the button to unfold the box. The indicator screen glowed faintly, its waveform line flickering lightly from the background noise of the universe. That was how you were supposed to start - intoning _background noise of the universe!_ to make it sound all mystical.

“Okay, fine,” Jazz muttered, putting his fingers on the two tuning knobs on either side of the screen and doing his best to clear his processor. “Never let it be said I didn’t give this an honest chance.”

Slag, he was already being obliged to believe in psychopomps. What was a lil’ ol’ _Homeless_ game?

*

Some time later, Jazz had picked up the local blitzball game, a radio drama and at least two transmissions he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear, but filed them away regardless. No voices from beyond. No psychopomps, shy and adorable or otherwise.

“...yeah, I mighta figured,” Jazz muttered, twiddling the knobs essentially at random. “I don’t think I’ll be telling Ric about this.”

_“TELL WHOM ABOUT WHAT?”_

Jazz yelled and leaped back from the game, whacking his helm on the bedframe in the process. The _Homeless_ game crackled with power, the entire screen glowing bright gold instead of the faint blue-green it was supposed to be, the occasional spark throwing from the controls.

 _“WELL?”_ the voice demanded, booming like a mighty engine and far too loud and clear for the little system’s speakers to produce without cracking.

“Uh,” Jazz squeaked. His pedes scrabbled on the floor, hands pattering at the frame of the berth until he could shove himself into sitting upright - and pull his legs in away from the box. The _glowing_ box. The sparking, glowing box that was _really freaking him out right now Ric what the frag._

 _“SPEAK PLAIN, CHILDE OF PRIMUS!”_ the voice thundered; Jazz felt about two feet tall, scrunching up tight and hoping to be overlooked. Safe and loved his shiny aft! _“MY TIME IS SHORT!”_

“Uh. ...uh. Hey, hang on-” Wasn’t that more or less what Prowl had said, at the end of the Trek? Jazz doubled over his own pedes and braced himself on his hands, peering cautiously at the game. “Are you a psychopomp?”

The box _flared,_ golden light sparking and dancing along the floor before it dissipated. _“I AM HEXADECIMAL,”_ it thundered, louder and clearer by far than the game’s old-fashioned systems should have been able to handle. _“DEFENDER OF THESE SPARKS OF IACON. I AM SUCCOUR; I AM HOPE; I AM WHAT IS WHEN ALL LIGHTS GO OUT. I ASK AGAIN, YE CHILDE OF PRIMUS - WHAT IS’T THAT HAS YE COMMUNING WITH THOSE PAST THE VEIL? SPEAK QUICKLY!”_

Jazz crouched in place, stunned - partly from the sheer volume and the _weight_ of the voice, partly from pure and simple disbelief. “Uh,” he said again, and reset his vocaliser right slagging quick when the waveform line began oscillating wildly again. “I’m - I’m lookin’ for another psychopomp. Name’s Prowl. We met on the Trek o’ the Homeless an’ I - I need to talk to’m.”

The game practically thrummed with disapproval, and for a brief, flickering second as the lights sputtered out overhead, the shimmering after-image of an immensely tall mech appeared over the console, draped pauldrons to pedes in heavy, stiff robes and glaring down at him. Jazz yelped and threw himself away from the apparition, barely missing the same strut of the berth that brained him before.

 _“FOOLHARDY SPARK,”_ the voice boomed. _“SET ASIDE SUCH TOYS, ERE YE PROVOKE THAT WHICH MUST REMAIN CHAINED. SUCH AS WE ARE NO COMMON VENDOR OF TREATS, TO BE SUMMONED AT THE WHIM OF A CHILDE; TURN BACK, AND WANDER NO MORE!”_

The mech and golden light vanished with a crackling _snap_ as though they had never been; the game sat innocently on the floor, a faint hiss of static the only sound. The lights snapped back on. Someone in the next room over thumped the wall as they turned over in their own rented berth. Silence.

“...well,” Jazz muttered, fuel pump racing so fast it made his whole body rattle. “That - that was - well.”

The game was shut off, stuffed into the back of the storage closet and had a thermal blanket dropped on top of it. Next on-shift he’d give his twin a piece of his processor. Right now was for curling up on the berth and having a quiet, private little freakout session.

*

_“SHIELD OF PRAXUS. I WOULD HAVE WORDS WITH THEE.”_

_“Um. Greetings, Hexadecimal. Is all well?”_

_“I WAS SUMMONED THIS CYCLE BY A LIVING CHILDE OF PRIMUS.”_

_“Summoned? How?”_

_“IT IS OF NO IMPORT. ...HE CLAIMED TO SEARCH FOR THEE, GUARDIAN OF PRAXUS. HE SPOKE UNTO ME THY NAME.”_

_“Oh. ...Oh! …...um.”_

_“...”_

_“I… I hope thou didst find it unnecessary to fright him too badly. I did not expect him to seek me out like this, but I am sure his intentions were good.”_

_“FAIR AND TRUE HIS INTENTIONS MAY BE, YET THOU KNOWEST WELL WHAT HORRORS HE MAY BESTIR IF HE CONTINUES. IF A SMALL FRIGHT IS ALL THE CHILDE SUFFERS ON HIS PATH, THEN WE MAY DEEM IT WELL. ...THINE INTENTIONS WERE MUCH THE SAME, I DISCERN.”_

_“...yes. I apologize.”_

_“I LEAVE THEE TO THY WORK THEN, FELLOW GUARDIAN. PRIMUS THE DREAMER DEFEND THEE.”_

_A long silence._

_“...he…he seeks me. Jazz is seeking me. ...I - I think he really does_ like _me.”_

In the quiet behind the Veil, one small, delighted squeak went unnoticed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jazz heads to the Temple again, and makes a very tiny friend.
> 
> And a good handful of bigger ones, but seriously, _tiny friend._ He doesn't know what to even.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where we begin to match up with the events of The Crown Of Cybertron! :D Chapter 10, to be precise.

After a rough and sleepless off-cycle, most of which was spent awake and clutching his spare thermal blanket up around his nose, Jazz stumbled out of the apartment building looking like something the mechanimals had dragged in. He squinted accusingly at the softly-glowing crystals growing just outside, at the youngling courier trotting industriously along the street, and finally at the distant glimmer of the central Temple.

“Frag me for a stubborn script,” he growled, and threw himself into his alt mode with a force that queasy systems did not appreciate.

There never seemed to be much in the way of a on cycle-off cycle rush in Praxus. The interwoven looping roads played some part in it, but Jazz’s engine grumbled when he saw the occasional black-and-white Enforcer directing traffic, even as they made his journey easier. Every road in Praxus had indeed led to the frigging Temple, no matter how little he’d originally wanted to go there.

On the other hand, after a recharge-cycle-that-wasn’t and having a thundering horror scold him like a naughty youngling, Jazz was just about ready to poke anyone who held still long enough to get some answers, priest or no priest. Or Enforcer or no Enforcer, whatever. This time as he rolled off the flyway and onto the Temple concourse, he transformed and marched into the foyer without needing to glance around.

Which, along with his lack of decent recharge the cycle before, probably had a lot to do with how he wound up tripping over a smaller-than-average youngling and sent them both clattering across the floor.

_“Owwww!”_ The youngling had a powerful vocalizer, that was for sure. “Ow ow ow _ow!”_

“Oh, sl - scrap, I’m so sorry.” Jazz scrambled to his hands and knees, trying not to loom over the red-and-yellow bitlet he’d just wiped out. The little grounder whimpered, clutching at his own plating across his torso. “Primus, I’m sorry. Are you okay? Please be okay, or I’ll have to kick my own aft.” That got a giggle to emerge from the whimpers.

“Ow, it hurts to laugh,” the tiny complained, but he was smiling, so he couldn’t have been hurting too badly. Jazz grinned in relief. “I think I’ll live though. I’m pretty tough.”

“I believe it,” Jazz beamed. “So, now that I’ve made a memorable first impression, my name’s Jazz. What’s yours?”

“Dash.” As the youngling clambered to his pedes, Jazz offered his hands and helped him up; it was the least he could do after sending the poor bit flying. “Nice to meet you. Are you an Enforcer?”

“Definitely not,” was the dry response. “Just lookin’ for the Archives. I got a little research to do.”

Dash lit up. “I know where that is! Want me to show you?”

Jazz was pretty sure he remembered the way to the Archives on his own, but how could he say no to that hopeful smile? “Sure, I’d like that.”

*

‘Dash’ was apparently a sparkling-name, one that Jazz’s new friend was content to use until he found his real name. It didn’t make much sense to Jazz, but after a breem in his company, Jazz had a suggestion: ‘Chatterbox.’ He was a cute bit, though, and Jazz couldn’t really deny that he’d been a chatty youngling himself - plus his new friend had lived in Praxus since he was small- well, small-er - and had plenty to say about it.

“So,” Jazz hummed, scrolling through another article he’d downloaded. “You help out ‘round the Temple, huh? You a priest too?”

Dash laughed and swung his pedes where he’d perched on a spare chair. “Nooo~” he giggled. “I don’t wanna be a priest; I dunno what I’m gonna do yet. Carrier says I don’t have to pick yet and the other grownups let me try out most stuff they do for work, so maybe I can do lots of stuff all at once. I like taking messages and doing stuff here, though. Carrier was all kinds of worried when I started, but it’s fun when there’s people to talk to and there’s _always_ people to talk to here.”

“I noticed,” Jazz said dryly, then set down his datapad and clapped his hands together. “Okay! This ain’t gettin’ me nowhere. Tell you what, kiddo, Imma take a break. How’s about I treat us to some goodies, say sorry for knockin’ you over?”

Dash lit right up, but there was a reserve in those bright blue optics that hadn’t been there before. “Sounds great, but I’m not s’posed to wander off while I’m helping. I’d have to tell one of the priests if I wanted to go anywhere before I get picked up.”

“Ah, my bad. Sorry, eight-bit, didn’t wanna mess with the schedule!”

“It’s okay,” Dash told him, but the reserve was still there. “We could go visit Siren and see if he’s got goodies, if you want. He makes them all the time - says it helps with stress.”

“Makin’ ‘em or eatin’ ‘em?” Jazz asked with a grin, and Dash had to admit he didn’t know.

Siren turned out to be one of the Enforcer-priests working security for the temple, which was apparently a thing, despite how easy it was for shady characters like Jazz to wander in and out. He’d turned from his work to offer a bright smile and a hug to Dash, then turned that warmth full-blast on Jazz.

“Yes,” he said when Dash introduced them importantly, “I’ve heard all about you. Collodion was quite taken with you - he’ll be sorry he missed you, it’s his cycle off.”

Jazz blinked. “He was what?”

“Siren, Siren,” Dash burst out, tugging on the Enforcer’s black gauntlet, “I told Jazz you make goodies. Have you made goodies? Do you think Jazz could try one maybe?”

“Oh?” Siren raised his optic ridges. “Just Jazz gets a goodie today, is that it?”

“Wellllll,” Dash giggled, “if I could have one too? To keep Jazz company?”

“Devious bit,” Siren laughed, gently poking the youngling’s forehelm. “Let me see what I’ve got lying around.”

Siren’s goodies turned out to be dark pink, studded with silicate beads, and very tasty indeed. “I don’t suppose I can bribe you for the recipe,” Jazz wheedled.

“I suppose I could dig it up,” Siren mused. “I’ve been doing variations on the same goodie recipe for so long I’ve had it memorized. I’d be happy to send it to you, though.” He picked up a goodie for himself and chewed on it thoughtfully. “But you didn’t grace our Temple again seeking goodie recipes,” he added, directing a knowing look Jazz’s way.

Jazz rubbed his helm. “It’s gonna sound crazy… I’m not even sure I didn’t just have a bad recharge flux.”

Siren smiled gently. “Why don’t you tell me, then, and I’ll see if I can’t help you tease out the truth.”

“Siren’s really smart about lots of things,” Dash piped up, patting Jazz’s knee. “And he can keep a secret. So can I.”

“Thanks, eight-bit.” Jazz returned the pat, brushing strong black fingers over Dash’s little silver hand. “Okay, here goes.”

Dash cuddled up at Jazz’s side as he spoke, curling his fingers around Jazz’s knee as Jazz described the booming voice shuddering out of the game box. Blue optics widened at the story, but Siren was frowning thoughtfully and nodding as Jazz finished - leaving out the part where he clung to his thermal wrap for the rest of the night. He had _some_ pride left.

“The trouble with games like those is that every now and again, you really do pick up something genuine,” Siren said finally. “That’s what makes them dangerous.” He rubbed a hand over his face, turning the story over in his processor. “I might need to check the Temple records to be sure, but there _was_ some kind of unusual activity last off-shift - we just didn’t know what it was, and it was brief and low-profile enough that it was flagged as anomalous but not dangerous when we sent a patrol out. What with the Treks coming to a close, it’s better to be safe than sorry...you do seem to be a magnet for spiritual activity, Jazz.”

Jazz gaped at him, mouth falling open and nothing but static coming out. “ _Fuh,_ ” he managed after a moment of struggling. “You ain’t _serious,_ mech! I never had nothing like this happen before comin’ here, what the frag!”

“Oooh,” Dash muttered softly, and Siren frowned.

“I know this is a shock, but not in front of the sparkling, please. Now, I would recommend that for the time being you don’t try to use anything like that game again, certainly not until the Treks are over. It may have put you in contact with a psychopomp, briefly, but that’s no guarantee that next time it won’t be something worse. I’d like to take the game box in to look it over, but that can wait until you head back to your quarters. Someone from the Temple will come along to pick it up.”

“Right. Right… sorry.” Jazz dropped his helm in his hands. “Sorry, Dash. Please don’t go repeatin’ that word, huh? At least not until you got your first altmode.”

“Sure.” Dash left his seat, sidling closer to lean against Jazz’s arm. “Were you scared? When the voice happened, I mean.”

Jazz sighed - _come on, you’re scarin’ the youngling, shake it off._ “More like startled,” he said, offering a smile and lifting his arm up for a hug, which Dash readily granted. “He didn’t threaten me or anything. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t evil. Just - y’know -” He wiggled a hand vaguely. “An officious blowhard.”

Dash splorfled a laugh. “Dare you to say that to him!”

“No _way._ Ol’ Jazz might be nosey but he ain’t dumb.” He chuckled and rubbed his knuckles gently over Dash’s helm crest, making him squawk. “Tryin’ to get me in trouble, you.”

“Noooo,” Dash giggled, flailing in his arms. “Siren, heeeelp!”

“Younglings,” Siren said mildly, and Jazz let the adorable little miscreant loose, still laughing.

“Okay, okay, maybe you are, maybe you ain’t,” he grinned, and Dash laughed and poked at Jazz’s knee again. “-hey! Siren, d’you see that?”

“I see both of you being incredibly silly,” Siren said, with a smile that became a chuckle when Dash hugged him tight in turn. “In all seriousness, if the psychopomp of Praxus has taken an interest in you, it would be a good idea to be polite to anyone else who may take the time to speak to you. There are many, many things in the Underdark it would not be wise to anger without backup, and psychopomps are duty-bound to aid living sparks. They are the Enforcers of the Veil, if you like.”

“Beginnin’ to think Praxus’ Enforcers ain’t like anyone else’s,” Jazz muttered, then let out a sigh from every vent he possessed before bringing out his smile again. “Okay, so, be nice to anyone else as yells at me. Got it.”

“That’s not _quite_ what I said...”

“Yeah, I know. Just feels like all this stuff started happening when all I wanted was t’find the mech I talked to on the Trek.” Jaz stood, dusting off the few powdery remains of his goodie from his lap, his previous good humour draining away. Dash impulsively trotted back to him and hugged his legs, looking up at him with big sympathetic optics before glancing over to Siren.

“Siren? Can I ask ‘Dance to come get me early today?”

“Why’s that, bitlet?” Siren murmured, though the look on his face suggested he had a few ideas of his own.

“Well...” Dashlet wiggled and looked up at Jazz again, little face appealing. “You said you were just staying here, right? You’re all on your own?”

“Pretty much,” Jazz said, voice thick with static. Normally it wouldn’t bother him in the slightest, but right now...yeah, he didn’t much feel like going back to his rented accommodation, even if he was going to have an Enforcer tail picking up the evil box of creepiness.

“So - so I was wondering if maybe he could come home with us. Just to visit! I know you’re going home after.”

“....awww, bit.” Jazz bent as best he could with a snuggly little octobot wrapped around his knees and his bumper in the way, squidging Dash carefully.

“That would be entirely up to your carrier,” Siren said firmly, “but it can’t hurt to ask.”

*

Dash’s ‘Dance - Skydance - turned out to be a protective adult Vosian like Mimic, who introduced himself as Dash’s uncle; a word with shades of meaning that Jazz couldn’t parse, at least not until he got his hands on a Vosian glyph dictionary. Then Dash’s carrier turned out to be yet another Vosian, and Jazz had to blink a few times before he could see the resemblance. “You must be Jazz,” he said, bending to meet Dash’s enthusiastic hug-charge. “I’m always glad to meet a friend of my little one’s.”

“Everyone’s Dash’s friend,” Skydance pointed out, and Jazz chuckled.

“Jazz tripped over me,” Dash informed Nightlight, settling into his arms. Jazz winced as Nightlight’s arms tightened protectively. “He apologized though so it’s okay. He’s here looking for a psychopomp.”

“Is he now?” Nightlight’s tension released a little. “I don’t think we have any of those around here, lilbit.” He touched his nose to Dash’s forehelm, teasing, and Dash giggled. Jazz tried not to stare.

“Won’t you come sit?” Nightlight invited, and Jazz shook off his thoughtfulness and accepted. Skydance entered in with him, and Jazz had the idea he was being gently shepherded as he was led deeper into the building.

The Vosian family’s suite wasn’t exactly what Jazz pictured when he thought _flier domicile._ There was one long, wide window looking out towards the distant temple complex and leading out to what Jazz assumed was a balcony, and an open floor plan that accommodated wider wings than the locals’, but other than that it was the same spiraling layout as most other Praxian architecture. The entertainment room was cluttered with art projects - “I’m sorry, we really need a good clean-up,” Nightlight had said, to which Jazz had grinned and assured him that he was capable of truly epic amounts of clutter himself - but Jazz’s attention was drawn to the long tapestry hanging pride-of-place on the wall opposite the window. “Beautiful,” he observed. “Is that steelinen?”

“Steelsilk,” Nightlight said gently, and Jazz’s field flared surprise. “My friend knows how to make it. I’m not very skilled at tatting, but it’s tradition to make a family tapestry.”

“This symbol is for Vos,” Dash added, proudly pointing out a motif that looked like a winged crown. “And this one is for Carrier, and this one is for me!”

“Wow, you know this whole tapestry back to front, don’t you?” Jazz observed. “Also, what is that, you’re not very skilled,” he added to Nightlight, mock-scolding. “Look at how tiny the stitches are! And how even it all is! I mean I’m no expert in Vosian folk art, but that looks professional to me.”

“Oh - but it - you should see what Radiant can do,” Nightlight demurred, trying to half-hide behind a grinning Dash. “But thank you.”

“Carrier’s a professional,” Dash caroled, making no effort not to wiggle in Nightlight’s arms, the older Vosian letting out something very like a splutter and tickling him until Dash squealed with laughter. “You aaare! Jazz said so!”

“Professional means you make things for money, Dashlet, and I definitely don’t do that!” But Nightlight nuzzled his sparkling’s cheek and stopped tickling, so Dash took that as his having won the question and beamed around the room as his intakes hiccupped giggles.

“I guess that technically makes me a professional,” Skydance mused aloud with an impish sort of glint in his optic. “Only I make things because I make them, then some weirdo usually winds up wanting to buy it. No clue why!”

“‘Cause you make nice things!”

Jazz perked all over again. “So these bits are all yours?” he asked, peering with renewed interest at the scattered...stuff. Thin sheets of metal and flimsies were layered around what looked like the beginnings of a wire frame, scraps of colour catching the optic here and there; a haphazard scattering of hardlight styluses were magnetised to one wall, furthest away from the window, and a chair was occupied by with a tangle that - when Jazz squinted - looked like a knot of wire with no beginning or end. Skydance looked rather sheepish, flicking his wingtips and giving him a lopsided grin.

“Well, kinda. Most of my stuff’s in the studio - more windows - but I, uh, usually wind up coming home with something. Or waking up with an idea in the middle of recharge and having to do something with it, like, _now._ It’s easier keeping some of my stuff here; I’d only play with it anyway.”

“That and Radiant borrows your hardlights when she’s stuck on something,” Nightlight pointed out with a flicker of rare mischief in his voice, and Dash giggled into his shoulder.

“That was funny. I liked the helm-thing!”

“Helm-thing?” Jazz tilted his head, his mood improving by the minute. He still wasn’t sure what kind of art Skydance could make out of all the...stuff, but it sure looked like the little family had fun. “Do I wanna know? ...scratch that, I do wanna know. Tell me, tell me!”

“Radiant likes making drapey stuff,” Dash informed him. “She comes over and draws stuff on people with the styluses when it doesn’t work right and sometimes it helps. Sometimes she gets fed up and draws weird stuff!”

“The end result that particular cycle looked rather like an aquatic frame had crash-landed on our third trinemate’s helm,” Nightlight said dryly, and Jazz promptly lost it.

“Oh Primus, I gotta - I gotta meet this Radiant character,” he wheezed, only managing to not fall over thanks to a quick assist from Skydance. “Tell her if she ever wants a grounder model I’m her mech.”

“We’ll pass that along.” Nightlight was warming up to him, Jazz thought; he still kept Dash close, but he was relaxing enough to sit on the wing-supporting chairs instead of hovering. “I’m sure she’d love the chance to work with a variety of frametypes. And you seem nice,” he added. “She won’t just like you for your frame.”

“Awww, thank y’ kindly.” Jazz chuckled. “So, Radiant’s into fabric design? Does she do costumes? My twin and I run a club together in Polyhex, and the dancers are always looking for new ideas.”

Nightlight and Skydance glanced at each other. “Well, yes and no,” Nightlight answered slowly. “Masquerade is our costume designer, Radiant’s interest is a bit different. They both work with our dancers and performance artists.”

“Masque made me a cape,” Dash piped up. “Radiant did the cloth, but Masquerade did the rest. It’s all sparkly!”

“Yes, and you look very handsome in it,” Nightlight answered, all indulgent affection. “But, Jazz, that sounds like very interesting work - and in Polyhex? What are you doing all the way in Praxus?”

“Are you on pilgrimage?” Skydance wondered, before Jazz could answer. “You said you were researching psychopomps…”

“No - trust me, I’m more surprised than anybody,” Jazz grinned dryly. “It’s kinda hard to explain…”

“Jazz went on a date with a psychopomp on the Trek of the Homeless,” Dash informed them, “and now he wants to find him again so they can kiss s’more.”

Jazz did his best not to let his shoulders hunch up around his ears as twin incredulous looks turned to him again. “Um. Well, I guess that’s th’ short version.”

“It’s a kinda weird version, gotta say,” Skydance said cheerily. “I mean, this is the first time we’ve been anywhere but Vos for a Trek, we so weren’t expecting people all dressed up and leading a parade! The lights are nice, though. Kinda like home.”

Nightlight was rather quiet after that. Skydance did a first-rate job of being a distraction, and the other Vosian managed a smile and a few words here and there as Skydance described Vos’ Ceremony of Lights, but Jazz couldn’t help but notice that Nightlight’s optics were distant and worried whenever something wasn’t directly holding his attention. That something was generally Dash, romping around the room and chattering away to any and all of the adults at once, and Nightlight always had a smile and plenty of focus for his tinybit.

Still, it made Jazz blink when Nightlight glanced at Skydance and said aloud, “Would anyone like goodies? It’s about time for something-”

“Me, me me!” Dash hopped up on his antigravs and glomped onto his Carrier’s waist. “Goodies please!”

“Well, in that case, would you like to go find something nice with ‘Dance? He made a few things today~”

Dash lit up like a small sun and promptly darted across to Skydance, who laughed out loud and caught him up to swing him around before settling Dash on his hip. “All right! If we don’t come back in a few clicks, we’ve eaten all the goodies so don’t come looking.”

“Duly noted,” Nightlight said dryly, then as the twosome clattered away he turned to Jazz with pale optics and a determined look that made the groundframe rather nervous.

“Hey, uh, if this is about tripping up on Dash,” Jazz hazarded, and was only more confused when Nightlight shook his helm.

“No, not at all. He said it was an accident, and I believe him.” Nothing about what Jazz himself had intended, and wasn’t that curious? “This psychopomp you mentioned - did they say they wanted to see you again?”

“Sure he did,” Jazz replied, a little stung. “Gave me the Temple’s comm ‘n apologised for havin’ ta go, everything. Why?”

Nightlight shook his helm again, optics darting to the window as though for reassurance, checking there was another way out - or maybe looking out at the Temple, Jazz couldn’t tell. “I have some experience with people who don’t like to take no for an answer. Dash is a very trusting little spark, but I’ve found that it pays to be careful.”

Jazz winced, his own behavior flashing before his optics - yeah, he could see how Nightlight could get the wrong impression. “Guess I can’t blame you,” he admitted. “Seems like a psychopomp could take care of himself, but what do I know? Before the Trek I didn’t even believe in psychopomps. Or the Well, or Primus - oh, slag,” he interrupted himself, “am I gonna have to start believing in Primus?”

Nightlight surprised Jazz - and himself - by laughing. “I’m the wrong person to ask,” he admitted. “The only people I knew who talked about Primus in Vos made him sound like - not a very nice person.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “I’d rather believe in my family and my little one.”

“I know the feeling.” Jazz chuckled dryly. “But here I am - researchin’ at temples and talkin’ to priests. Who are apparently Enforcers too. I mean, where’s the logic?”

“I know what you mean.” Nightlight grinned. “I remember how confused I was when I came here. But they’ve been so kind to us, I’m certainly not complaining. Perhaps other cities could stand to learn a little from Praxus.”

“Their Enforcers sure could,” Jazz answered dryly. “...listen, before the others come chargin’ back in here...” Nightlight tilted his head and Jazz glanced away sheepishly. “Thanks. For welcomin’ me in even if you didn’t have any reason to trust me.”

“Dash is my litmus test for people,” Nightlight admitted with a small smile. “Your kindness to him is a point in your favor.”

Jazz wiggled, and that finally made Nightlight laugh. “He’s a cute bit,” Jazz admitted with a grin. “‘S easy to be kind to him. ...I’m gonna feel bad for bowlin’ him over like that for a while, though. You sure he’s okay? I mean, if anybody’d know...”

“He’ll be fine,” Nightlight assured him. “You have to get used to little ones coming back home with bumps and scratches after a while, but it doesn’t always get easier. ...I might have picked up some first responder training when he was smaller just in case.”

“Eh, guess it never hurts bein’ prepared.”

Nightlight gave him a brief, almost surprised smile for that, then turned to open his arms to the triumphant return of Dash, Skydance and what looked like half a goodie shop’s worth of treats. “Oh my goodness - when I said something nice, I didn’t mean everything!”

“But, but, company!” Dash chirped, launching himself into his Carrier’s arms as though he’d been gone for a week. “And ‘Dance said ‘Song’s done at the sing-thing he was doing today so he’s coming home, and when ‘Song comes home Masq and Medley and Tempo and Bubbles come home, and _they_ can’t not have goodies, so we _had_ to get lots!”

“Oh you did, did you?” Nightlight drawled, casting an amused look over at the nominally-responsible adult he had sent with Dash. Skydance just held the heavily-laden plate in both hands and gave him a cheery grin in turn. “...oh, why not. Just this once, though.”

*

In the end, Jazz wound up staying for the rest of the on-shift as various members of the peculiar Vosian family returned home. He hadn’t realised as ‘Dance led the way into the building, but soon found out that there was a whole little extension of Vos here; they had settled at the outskirts of the artist’s quarter, small as it was, and the artists in Praxus _loved_ them. After Bubblebomb, Radiant, Rocket and Fireflash made it home, Jazz wanted to move in himself.

Especially with the discovery that Dash wasn’t the only little Vosian there.

There were at least a dozen running around, bouncing from adult to adult to pile-of-goodies and back again. The smallest was tiny, barely-unfurled Helios, who could have been Dash’s little brother with his russet-copper plating and blue optics, but he was too shy to even say hello to Jazz until Jazz volunteered to sing to the little ones to give their grownups a tiny bit of a break. He chose something slow, something he used to sing at the end of the night in his club to wind everybody down, and pretended not to notice the crawl-shuffling tinybit working his way through the crowd of older-lils; by the time he was done, Helios had draped himself over Jazz’s thigh, a little warm bundle of Cling and wide blue optics.

“Aww,” he cooed, patting his little back. “You like my voice, eight-bit?”

“‘Lios doesn’t talk yet,” one of the other little ones informed him solemnly - Boo, Jazz thought her name had been. “But I think that means he likes you.”

...and that was Jazz’s spark, melting into a puddle. “Like him too,” Jazz murmured, stroking the lilbit’s copper plating. “Like all y’all too.” And then all was Tinybit Hugs for a while, and more songs, until Helios dropped off to sleep in Jazz’s lap and the older sparklings looked about ready to follow suit.

“All right, my darlings, off to bed,” Nightlight declared, getting up to shoulder shepherding duty. “Skydance, can you go get the hammocks out? ...thank you. Jazz, thank you so much for entertaining them.”

“Was my pleasure,” Jazz grinned as Dash wrapped around him for one last hug. “Seriously, I’ll come and sing for ‘em anytime.”

“I’m sure you would be more than welcome,” Nightlight said with a smile, then gently worked the limp little bundle of Helios up from Jazz’s lap and into his arms. “Now, come along, sweetest-bits. Jazz can come back sometime and you can play more then.”

The look he gave Jazz over the sleepy sounds of approval was a complicated one, but then he smiled and nodded as though confirming that he’d made up his mind. Jazz beamed back at him, and Nightlight’s smile dimpled at the corners before he turned back to the little Vosians and led them out of the central room. Skydance had already disappeared that way, and a big golden Vosian ‘Dance had introduced as Thundersong quietly followed. Considering that Jazz wasn’t at all sure how Nightlight was going to wrangle around a dozen sleepy eight-bits into recharge single-handed it seemed pretty smart to him, and kind of like this was a regular occurrence. Might have been nice, growing up in a pack of littlebits like that - then again, him and Ric got into plenty of trouble as Sigma younglings, and they’d never needed anyone but each other to have fun.

Jazz’s lips quirked at the memory before turning back to the other Vosians - and promptly being accosted by another one he kind of wanted to keep.

“Jazz, darling!” Radiant declaimed, one hand touching his shoulder as the other gesticulated along with her words; Jazz would have assumed she was part of the theatrical troupe if he hadn’t heard she was a steelwright first. “Now the little ones are in recharge, I simply must hear more about this romantic rendezvous of yours! How charming, a mysterious painted mech vanishing into thin air...the drama, the intrigue! It sounds absolutely thrilling.” 

“...heh. Not so much, really - more really kinda mind-blowing, an’ not always the good way.”

“Oh, come now.” Radiant fluttered her free hand at him, and Jazz couldn’t help grinning. “Disguises on holidays are unheard of in Vos! Surely it was a _little_ fun to be kissed by a mythical figure, even if he could have been more accurate in his comm code - really, it all sounds terribly sweet.”

Jazz raised his hands apologetically. “Hey, I don’t kiss and tell, here. I doubt he’d like being the subject of gossip.”

“Oh, wingflaps, it’s complimentary gossip.” Radiant pouted - she even _pouted_ glamorously, somehow - but gracefully eased off. “Speaking of complimentary, _you’re_ cutting quite the dashing and romantic figure in this tale yourself.”

“...’scuse me, what?”

Radiant laughed at his poleaxed expression. “You, going to such lengths and updating your entire worldview to woo your paramour! It’s like a romantic holoproduction, only much less with the tedious morality-play aspects. And a much more handsome star.”

“Now you’re flatterin’ me.” Jazz was grinning, though.

“Darling, I never flatter.” Radiant pressed her hand to her cockpit just over her spark, optics wide and fluttering in a very good imitation of sincerity. “You’re a fine figure of a mechanism, and I’m not even adding ‘for a grounder’ to the end of that sentence. _And_ you’re kind to little ones - my Helios was enamored of your voice. No wonder this - what was that word, again?”

“‘Psychopomp,’” Skydance supplied cheerfully, thoroughly enjoying Jazz’s embarrassed faces. “Whatever that means.”

“-no wonder this psychopomp of yours went sky-silly for you,” Radiant beamed, and Jazz grabbed for the nearest empty goodie tray to hide his face behind. “...oh dear. I do believe I broke him.”

“Radiant, stop breaking the houseguests,” Nightlight scolded gently as he came back into the main room. His hand, cool and gentle, landed on Jazz’s shoulder. “You really can tell them to stop if you need to, Jazz, don’t worry on that front.”

“Ain’t worried,” Jazz protested faintly from behind his tray. “Just. Ric’s never gonna believe me ‘bout all this, y’know.”

“Ric?” Radiant echoed, both eagerly curious and hoping to make up for scaring the charmingly pretty grounder into hiding.

“My twin back home. I swear, he’s gonna say I’m makin’ all this up just ‘cause he stayed back in Polyhex t’mind the club. Bad enough he sent me some stupid _Homeless_ game t’tease me already...”

Radiant’s optics lit up all over again, and Jazz was swiftly drawn into a comparison of stories about siblings and the terrible things they got their poor, misunderstood other-sibs into with any passing Vosian who had them - to Jazz’s surprise, and growing amusement, Vosians tended to come in threes. Nightlight only gave a faint smile and waved Jazz on when asked about his siblings, but the things Radiant and Resonance had to say about growing up together had Jazz locking the volume on his vocaliser so he didn’t wake the tinies on the other side of the building.

“Slag, and I thought Ric and I were wild,” he chortled, and Radiant beamed proudly. “Someday I’m gonna have to introduce y’all to him, you know.”

Radiant clapped her hands eagerly. “I would love to meet him! I’m sure he can’t come visit in the near future, you said he was running your club-?” Jazz nodded. “But he sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Oh, he’s a bucket of fun,” Jazz grinned, empty goodie tray forgotten in his lap. “I remember the time the two of us got politely press-ganged into shepherding this noble around the artist’s quarter - they can do that in Polyhex, it’s weird as slag - anyway, Ric had got ahold of this lil noisemaking toy…”

His tale of how the two of them had driven their noble employer up one wall and down the other had the entire room whooping and thumping the furniture. Jazz grinned, proud of himself - even if he hadn’t made much progress finding a way to contact Prowl today, he’d made a bunch of new friends. Suddenly the task before Jazz didn’t seem quite so insurmountable.

*

The Enforcer sent by Siren pinged smartly at the door belonging (for now) to one visitor designated Jazz. “Hello,” she sang out, “I’m from the Temple. Siren sent me to pick up your box?”

The door remained closed and silent, not even a stir beyond it to indicate there was anyone there. “Jazz?” she tried again, pinging the door to request admittance one more time. “Are you in?”

Apparently not. The Enforcer checked her chrono - it was a bit late to be out, but maybe Jazz was an off-cycle kind of bot. With a mental shrug, she wandered off to her next task.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jazz does something extremely inadvisable, Prowl shows his devotion, and Dash is unimpressed by all these grownups smooching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have guessed what's coming already, but warnings for violence, scary beasties, sparks being eaten and very angry psychopomps.

Jazz hadn’t been out in Praxus after-hours all that much during his time there. When he’d arrived he’d plunged straight into the whirl of the Treks, and then Prowl had happened...and then his on-shifts had been full of research and questions, and his off-shifts for conking out in his own berth with his processor in a whirl. He was a mech of dark clubs and bright lights, of noise and colour, but there was something...soothing, almost, about Praxus when good little mechs were in recharge. Like the city was his own private world, and the crystals were glimmering in their settings just for him. The stars were bright and clear overhead, waltzing in graceful eons-long spirals around Cybertron, and Jazz danced alone under the starlight as the music in his spark thrummed to their beat.

He took his time making his way back to the rooms he’d rented. Nightlight had been a gracious host and the Vosians were a blast, but they all had work to get to the next on-cycle and Jazz had gracefully suggested maybe he head back. The grateful smile Nightlight had granted him was proof enough that the mech was tired too, and had even gone so far as inviting Jazz to drop in again sometime.

“There’s always someone at home for the little ones,” Nightlight had said, lingering in the somewhat crowded main room. “I’m sure they would love to see you again.”

Jazz had beamed at him, and waved one more time at Radiant as she left for her own berth. “They’re amazing,” he said honestly. “Polyhex’s got nothin’ like them. But if I don’t head for my own berth I’ll be up for nothin’ tomorrow, an’ I got stuff to do. Y’all know how it is.”

Nightlight smiled back at him. “Of course, your mystery sweetspark. Well, good luck finding him, Jazz. I have to agree with Radiant - it does sound romantic.”

Not so romantic after Jazz had had Vosian traditions explained to him and figured out that they didn’t _have_ psychopomps as part of the Treks over in Vos, so as far as present company was concerned Jazz was hunting down a real live mech that had been dressed up in costume, but - well - the interest and good wishes were sincerely meant, and that counted for a lot.

“First real friends I’ve made since I got here,” Jazz mused aloud, head tilted back to drink in the stars. “All ‘cause I tripped over one of their younglings, heh.”

Not that he was planning on making a habit of that.

*

When Jazz returned to his quarters, the door software informed him he’d had a visitor while he was out. Siren’s promised aide, Jazz assumed, there to pick up the evil game his evil twin had sent him. _Guess ei’ll be back tomorrow,_ he mused as he pinged acknowledgement to the notification and entered his quarters. _Or I could bring it by myself._

_Better get it out so I don’t forget._

Jazz dug it out gingerly, still half-wrapped in the thermal blanket as though it had become acidic, or, he didn’t know, grown _teeth_ or something. Holding it out away from him was awkward, given certain aspects of his frametype, but Jazz did his best until he got it onto the table in the mini-dispensary. It _thunked_ quietly down, just like any other inanimate object, and Jazz backed up quickly.

It failed to explode, or come to life to yell at him again, and in the privacy of his own processor Jazz was starting to doubt himself. Had it been a bad recharge flux? Or maybe he’d picked up part of an old holobroadcast...

No good could come of poking at the thing again. And yet...now Jazz’s curiosity was aroused. The Vosians had been as good as riveted to the story it had made, leaning in with avid optics and with their wings twitching in anticipation - it had started to feel like something out of a story even as he was telling it. Had he ever heard some oldmech telling tales of voices in the dark? Played some Trek game with an ‘angry spirit’ possessing the box? Maybe he had, and Ricochet had accidentally dragged up an ancient and forgotten file from storage by sending him the stupid thing. Frag but he’d feel ridiculous if it all turned out to be one big coincidence. 

_Maybe..._

Jazz hesitated, then threw his hands in the air.

“Frag this,” he declared to the empty air, and pointed accusingly at the _Homeless_ box. “Like fun am I gonna keep jumpin’ at a stupid game. I bet I just dozed off an’ imagined the whole thing when it all got too borin’, no matter what Siren says.”

Challenge thrown, Jazz dragged the game off the tabletop and strode over to the berth in his tiny suite to plonk himself down exactly as he had sat before, this time with an expression of righteous determination steeling the glare he fixed on the game box. He pressed the catch to open the lid, internally bracing himself as it split down the centre and folded out, a faint hiss of static escaping as the internal monitor blipped and glowed with life.

“Prob’ly ‘cause I was runnin’ on the edge of recharge an’ not thinkin’ straight anyway,” Jazz muttered, and placed his fingers on the twin dials.

Power hissed through the wires of the toy, and it could have been Jazz’s imagination that his fingertip sensors were picking up a faint tingle. He turned them, first one, then the other, watching the waveform on the screen flicker and spit background radiation. The room fell away from Jazz’s awareness, dissolving into a darkness as deep and profound as the Underdark; all he sensed were the dials under his fingers and the waveform line before his optical band.

_Whumm,_ went the line, jumping and shuddering with the voices of hundreds across Praxus. _Whumm-whumm._

_WHUMMMMMMM-_

Jazz leaned back as the waveform line went wild, registering so much activity that it almost filled the screen entirely. “What the slag,” he muttered, and hit the off-switch - only the switch failed entirely, the waveform line increasing in intensity as static poured angrily from the speakers like a phalanx of Iaconian Guardian war drones. Jazz, who had seen his share of horror holobroadcasts even after they were made illegal, scrabbled back and started casting about for something he could use as a bludgeon as his spark hammered in its chamber.

He’d just grabbed the light fixture on the table when a hand reached through the screen. A hand tipped with curved, sharp claws, each jagged one as long as a scythe. A needle-filled mouth followed, a void in a face with optics like a dead mech’s and a ragged crest spotted with rust.

Jazz started pinging for the Enforcers frantically as the head emerged, but it wasn’t until the sparkeater emerged fully from the screen that he started screaming.

*

The Enforcers of Praxus were amongst the most well-trained on Cybertron. When a call came in their well-oiled social machine swung into action, sending out officers from the nearest station that had the experience and training to handle whatever situation came up. As terrified pings turned to screaming, a particularly well-calibrated set of alarms began to sound in the Temple and a riot squad of heavily-armoured priests and seers ran to the armoury. Sparkeater attacks were rare but not unprecedented and Praxus had a drill for almost every contingency.

As quickly as the Enforcer-priests reacted, the Shield of Praxus was faster.

*

The sparkeater hunched in a room too small for it, jaw working until it came off its hinges and yawned open wide. The spark quivering in its claws whirled faster and faster in distress, bleeding energy into the aether without the support of its containing chamber; the horror holding it in its grip raised the spark to its maw, a trail of swirling terror painting the air clear for those on that side of the veil to see. 

The sparkeater uncurled its claws, then pushed the shuddering spark past rusty-wet needle teeth and swallowed it whole.

The spark’s dissonant clawing terror rang out like bells as it was forced down the nightmare’s gullet and into its digestion tank, shrilling in sick panic, and if Prowl had needed any more incentive to hurry he would have had it then and there. He came through the wall and hit the sparkeater hard enough that he sent the creature of the Underdark slamming into the thin wall of the room, its backplates tearing into the buckled metal and pinning it in place.

_Nightmare of the world,_ Prowl snarled, his hand locking around the sparkeater’s throat; it hissed and clawed at him, dagger fingers gouging along his sides and scoring dark trails down his spark-stuff deeply enough to mark. Prowl’s back arched but he did not let go, optics narrowing to blazing slits as he gritted his jaw against the pain - he twisted away before the sparkeater’s claws could pull free, forcing its head up, and punched a hole through the sparkeater’s tank with the sparkmatter of his hand locked flat into a blade. The corrupted transparisteel tore like a plastic flimsy and the creature howled, ripping its claws free of Prowl’s flanks and slashing at his side; Prowl pulled his head and doorwings in tight to his plating until he had his hand curled gently around the terrified spark held captive in the tank. Pulling his hand free, cradling Jazz’s spark under his bumper, Prowl tightened his grip on the sparkeater’s throat until metal crunched.

_Be no more, nightmare of darkness,_ he gasped out, optics blazing white and sparkmatter torn. _In the name of the Creator, I condemn thee to entropy!_

The flash of power was blinding; the sparkeater shrieked like a turbofox in agony, Prowl’s crushing hand at its throat filling it with light that blazed out through its mouth and broken optics, hollowing it out until it collapsed - nothing more than a heap of jagged metal, hanging limply from the wall.

Prowl unclenched his fingers with an effort, his form dissipating slightly and reforming a pace away from the monster’s remains. After a moment’s searching he sank down onto his knees beside a small frame tossed aside on the floor, Jazz’s colours not quite beginning to fade.

_There is hope yet, then,_ he murmured, fingertips brushing intangibly over a limp black palm, and finally, carefully brought his other hand up from its protective curl against his middle. _Jazz...I am so sorry. Nothing I can say would undo the damage I have done to thee._

The spark in his palm bobbled slightly, uncertainly, and Prowl felt a familiar field cautiously extending out - deliberately this time, an investigative query instead of a spark’s equivalent to a scream. _...Prowl?_

_Yes,_ he replied softly, bowing his head and bringing his free hand up to help keep Jazz’s corona together. He had had a horrible shock, for all that Jazz was one of the stronger sparks he had known, and Prowl would not risk Jazz’s dissipation. _I am so sorry. For all of this._

_...Prowl!_ Jazz’s spark flung himself against Prowl’s palm, corona-threads wrapping around him, and Prowl nearly fell over from sheer shock. _Prowl, Primus, don’t leave. I was just tryin’ to find you again and then I got EATEN and it hurts and oh slag am I dead?_

_Thou art living yet,_ Prowl assured him. _But I must place thee back in thy casing. Thou’rt fading without spark support._

_Don’t leave,_ Jazz begged, clinging even harder to his hand. _Tell me you won’t leave._

Prowl winced, his sparkmatter contracting faintly in guilt and sorrow. _Thou may be unable to see me after I return thee to thy frame, but I promise I will stay close. Thou’rt safe now, Jazz._

_...you don’t make promises if you’re not sure you can keep ‘em._ Jazz’s voice was small and faint, and Prowl hurried to return him to his body. _One of the things I like ‘bout you._

Prowl knelt over Jazz’s frame, spilling his precious sparklight back into his casing where it belonged as the calls and pedefalls of the Praxian Enforcers sounded outside the door. _I like all things about thee,_ he whispered.

Fading tendrils of brilliant sparklight trailed over his fingertips like a sigh. _Kinda hoped you’d say that,_ Jazz murmured, and Prowl pressed his hands over the bare hole the sparkeater had torn in Jazz’s plating with his head bowed.

_I am nothing but spark,_ he whispered back as the Enforcers poured in through the door, _and my spark sings to thine, though I should know better._

“Here!” someone shouted, a medic falling to Jazz’s side with tools already unfolding from his fingertips. “Spark containment compromised, fuel levels good, if we can get his spark stable I want him in the medbay _yesterday_ -”

Another of the Enforcers was carefully, cautiously scanning the sparkeater as the others fanned through the tiny apartment, sensors alive and dialled high. “Seems clear,” another called through from the other room. “The only energy we’re picking up is in the main room - it didn’t even leave the entry point.”

Prowl barely glanced up as one of the Enforcers knelt beside Jazz, despite the medic working _through_ his hands to seal up Jazz’s spark chamber.

“Do we have you to thank for that?” she asked calmly, and it took several moments of Prowl watching Jazz’s spark disappear a piece at a time before he realised she was speaking to him.

_Thou’rt perceptive, child of Primus,_ he said numbly. Sensitive, yes, but she was clearly having to strain to hear him - it didn’t matter the volume he spoke at, if one of the sparks he protected had the faintest bit of sensitivity to the veil. She had to be exceptionally well trained if she could pick up that he was there at all. 

The Enforcer bowed her helm, but her doorwings were still held upright and quivering as she scanned the room around them. “We do our best with what we have, Guardian. Was it you who destroyed the nightmare?”

_It was,_ Prowl confirmed; the slices through his sparkmatter still dripped foulness from the thing’s claws. It would take time to heal - time he could take after he was sure Jazz was safe in a medbay. _Be not afraid. None followed, and the breach is contained._

“Thank you,” she murmured. “We owe you for that. And for this mech’s life.” She straightened, the medic letting out a harsh vent as black and white lifeforce blazed through Jazz’s frame again. “Transport! Now!” she ordered, and her team leaped to obey.

_Thou owest nothing to me,_ Prowl replied, watching as Jazz was lifted up and put on the stretcher. _It is my charge as Shield of Praxus._

Yet, he knew as he followed the Enforcers out, that even if he were not, nothing could have kept him from Jazz’s side.

*

Dash peeked in the doorway to the medical ward while the medic went to meet his carrier. Jazz was on the berth, far too still for such a lively person, and next to his berth was a Praxian painted with strange markings and a weary, sad expression.

“Prowl,” he greeted, trotting forward, and Prowl glanced up.

_Hello, bright one,_ he said, reaching out to grace Dash’s helm with a cool, tingly caress. _What dost thou do here?_

“Jazz is my friend,” Dash explained, leaning into Prowl’s hand. “What happened to him? The medics won’t tell me. Did someone hurt him?”

Prowl hesitated, and Dash suspected he wasn’t going to get the truth from Prowl either. _Grownups._

_Something did,_ he said diplomatically, and Dash scowled before Prowl continued. _Then I made sure it would not hurt him again, or anyone else. Thou’rt safe._

“...oh.” Dash considered that, glancing up at Jazz’s berth - if Prowl said they were safe then they were, but they only had a little bit of time before Carrier arrived and the grownups would think Dash was talking to himself again. “Prowl, Jazz said he was looking for a psychopomp he met on the Trek, do you know who it is? He really really wants to find them, I think he likes them a whole lot. He got all weird and smoochy when he was telling everybody about it.”

The air around Prowl flickered a little bit then, and Dash squinted - his friend’s form had brightened and faded all in a sparkbeat, and now Prowl wasn’t quite looking at him _or_ at Jazz. _I do know it. ...he was searching for me._

“You?” Dash exclaimed, and couldn’t help hopping up onto the tips of his pedes and wiggling. “That’s so great! Oh - oh, wait, can he see you? You said most people couldn’t see you! Is he special too?”

_He is very special,_ Prowl murmured, then gave himself a shivery little shake that made his outline go all blurry and wound up with him looking back properly at Dash again. _He may not be sensitive as thou art, bright one, but - dost thou recall my speaking of a mech I met on the Trek of the Homeless?_

“Ye-e-es,” Dash said slowly, before brightening. “That was Jazz? You never said you wanted to go all smoochy.”

Prowl blurred and flickered again, this time both at once. _It was - not my intention, but..._

Dash waited a moment, but Prowl didn’t seem to want to finish the thought. “It gets lonely sometimes, huh,” he said quietly, Carrier’s voice getting nearer outside the door. Prowl bowed his head.

_It does,_ he said softly. _I can only hope that my selfishness has done him no permanent harm._

Dash was gearing up for a really good argue, but Carrier came in just before he could tell Prowl off for being so silly. It didn’t seem the least bit fair that Prowl worked so hard and helped all those people who got lost after their frames finished working, but wasn’t allowed to have any friends. Dash hadn’t liked it when the cousins in Vos had made it hard for Carrier to do things, and he didn’t like it now. But telling Prowl it was silly would have to wait - the Enforcer-priest, Downshift, came over to Jazz’s berth, murmuring a hello to Dash as she passed, and Prowl politely blurred out of the way when she would have stood in the middle of him otherwise. It didn’t make any difference to Prowl, but it both fascinated Dash and made his plating creep when Prowl walked through things on accident, so Prowl paid a little bit more attention to where his bits were going when they talked. Dash really appreciated it, and he really liked Prowl and he really liked Jazz, so he cuddled in close to Carrier’s side to listen.

“He should recover fully,” Downshift was saying as Nightlight nodded in relief. “Our scans indicate that his sparkmatter is intact, and there is no damage to his frame aside from a few dents where I assume he fell against his berth. However, night terrors are common for at least the first few cycles after an experience such as this - I don’t recommend he remain alone at night until they subside. Do you know if he has family in the area?”

“The only family he mentioned was his twin in Polyhex,” Nightlight answered. “I don’t know if Ricochet can get away from his business very easily. If he agrees to it, we’ll look after him.”

Dash stole another glance at Prowl. The psychopomp had his shoulders up and his doors lowered, all Praxian in how he expressed his guilt. Dash glanced up at Carrier and the medic again, then subtly reached out with his free hand and took hold of Prowl’s. It wasn’t easy - his hand went right through if he didn’t concentrate - but Prowl’s shoulders relaxed, and he even gave Dash’s hand a gentle little squeeze.

“Not your fault,” he murmured.

_I fear it is,_ Prowl sighed, _but thou’rt kind to say so._

“No,” Dash contradicted, all stubbornness. “I’m just telling the truth. Jazz likes you, and you like him, and you didn’t hurt him. I know that.”

“Dash?” Nightlight’s attention had shifted. “Who are you talking to?”

Dash looked back. His Carrier just looked puzzled, but the medic next to him looked as though she had a faint inkling of the answer to Carrier’s question. He glanced up at Prowl, looking for a cue. The psychopomp’s doors drooped even further and his edges fuzzed, making Dash’s hand tingle, but neither one let go of the other’s hand.

_Yon medic is sensitive,_ Prowl said softly, meeting and holding Dash’s gaze. _The decision is yours, bright one, but if it is thy choice to make it clear to thy carrier, she sees my edges as you do. She can confirm thy words._

“...I’m talking to Prowl,” Dash said after a moment, his voice firm and decisive. “He’s the psychopomp Jazz was looking for, remember?”

Nightlight hesitated, the worried little scrunch that Dash hated reappearing around his optics. “Dashlet, Jazz was looking for someone painted up to look like a psychopomp-”

“No he _wasn’t,_ ” Dash insisted. “He’s standing right there, you just can’t see him. Most people can’t and it’s not _fair,_ he’s really nice and he thinks it’s his fault Jazz got hurt!”

That made Prowl startle, white optics flickering brighter at the edge of Dash’s vision, but the medic looked as though his outburst had answered more questions than it hadn’t. “I had wondered,” she murmured, and nodded to part of the room that seemed completely empty even when Nightlight strained his sensors. “Your pardon, guardian - we had wondered, mostly since very few of your rank remain for long.”

Nightlight was starting to look upset, holding Dash a little tighter - it made the young mech huff and wriggle rather than the reverse. “I don’t think I like this talking to invisible people,” he said in an attempt at levity, and Downshift gave him an indulgent smile.

“It can be jarring for those not used to it,” she assured him. “If it reassures you at all, I would trust a psychopomp as I would any other Enforcer. They hold essentially the same position on another spectrum that most simply can’t pick up - they would never do your sparkling harm.”

“I talked to Prowl right after we got here and you said it was okay,” Dash reminded his Carrier, and Nightlight winced.

“I’m sorry, sweetest, but this is - this is a very new thing for me. I thought you were talking to a made-up friend instead of someone I couldn’t see.”

Dash pouted, a little hurt, and Nightlight hugged him closer. “I’m sorry, sweetest. I know you wouldn’t just make things up, but I didn’t realise- well. I do now. ...may I meet your friend? Properly, this time?”

Dash dutifully summoned up his Manners subroutines. “Carrier, meet Prowl, Jazz’s boyfriend.” Prowl made a sound a whole lot like an engine stuttering, remarkable for someone who didn’t, technically, have an engine. “Prowl, this is my carrier, Nightlight.”

Nightlight stood, awkwardly trying to guess where Prowl was standing from the direction of Dash’s gaze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Any friend of my Dashlet’s is a friend of mine.”

Prowl nodded to him. _I beg thy pardon for thy distress,_ he offered, and Downshift quietly took on the work of passing on his words to Nightlight. _I was as surprised as thou’rt when Dash spoke to me, but he is a kind and good-sparked youngling._

Nightlight glowed. “I know,” he answered as Dash squirmed in pleased embarrassment. “I can’t take the credit for that, but I know.”

“Carrier,” Dash protested, but then Jazz stirred faintly on the berth, and all of their attention turned to him like magnets turning to their North. His visor flickered dimly, glinting in the strong medbay lights as his helm twitched and turned towards the remembered sound of voices.

“Prowl?” he croaked, and the psychopomp blurred in the vision of those who could see him as he vanished and reappeared at Jazz’s side. Prowl bent over him, a hand hovering over Jazz’s repaired plating as though afraid to touch, white optics searching Jazz’s face as his visor slowly lit. “Hey,” Jazz murmured, a hazy smile drifting over his face. “There y’are.”

_I swore to thee I would stay,_ Prowl replied softly, and Jazz smiled - then as his visor blinked brighter he struggled to sit up, face twisting in distress.

“Prowl? _Prowl!_ Don’ go!”

Prowl flinched, his own optics dimming as he drew back. _He no longer sees me,_ he said as Downshift came forward. Dash clung to his Carrier’s plating, optics stinging, and didn’t protest when Nightlight scooped him into his arms and stood.

“You’re safe,” Downshift was saying, her voice firm and soothing. “At best guess I would say you can’t see him because you’re online and out of danger - he’s here, he’s been here since you were brought in. You need to lie back down so I can check your welds. Can you do that for me?”

Jazz was clinging to her gauntlets, part defensive and partly needing to hold onto _someone,_ even if it wasn’t who he wanted. “Y-yeah,” he managed, vents roaring and visor almost white - Prowl’s spark ached at the fear in his face and how his whole frame trembled, reaching out to curl his hand over Jazz’s clutching fingers even if Jazz couldn’t feel it. “Yeah, okay. Okay.”

He lay back, visor going dark; the medic started press-testing each weld, starting at his helm. “My name’s Downshift. What’s your name?”

“Jazz.”

“Do you remember what happened, Jazz?”

“Yeah. Sparkeater got me.” He said it so flatly, although his feelings were anything but flat. He heard a sharp intake from tiny vents, and his visor lit again. “Dash?” he blurted when his gaze met the youngling’s. “Oh, scrap me, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here-”

“It’s all right, Jazz,” Downshift said firmly, one hand firm on his shoulder to keep him from rising. “You’re fine. I’m almost done here, then I need to do a quick spark scan.”

“I’m so sorry, Dash, Nightlight.” Jazz’s voice broke. The horrible sharp cold of the sparkeater’s maw was still with him, and despite Downshift’s assurance he couldn’t see or sense Prowl, and now on top of it all he’d gone and scared the little one. He shuttered his optics again as Dash squirmed in Nightlight’s arms, fighting to keep himself from crying out or sobbing. _Prowl…!_

A moment later two small, warm hands wrapped tight around his. “Prowl says he’s still here,” Dash reported solemnly. “And he says to say sorry he got you into this, but I won’t say that because it’s not his fault.”

“Know that.” Jazz squeezed Dash’s hand weakly. “Ain’t nobody but me to blame.”

Dash gave him a truly spectacular scowl for someone so small, and a moment later Nightlight joined him at Jazz’s berth. “None of that, now,” he said firmly. “Downshift is going to finish checking you over, and then, if you don’t mind, we’re going to look after you for a while.”

“...huh?” Jazz blinked. Nightlight looked weirdly similar to Dash right at that moment, both of their faces set and determined with the same glint to their optics, and he wasn’t sure he was keeping up.

“You’re coming home with us,” Nightlight said firmly. “Unless you really don’t want to. ...Prowl is welcome to come too,” he added, though this time he sounded a little less sure of himself. Dashlet lit right up, and a chokey sort of laugh escaped Jazz’s vocaliser without his say-so.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re way too nice?” he managed, static lacing his voice; Nightlight twitched his wings like something bothered him, but gave Jazz a gentle smile back.

“Sometimes,” Nightlight told him. “But I’ve always thought it was worth it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nightlight and Dash take Jazz home with them, Jazz and Prowl finally get the chance to sit down and Use Their Words, and some constructive cuddling happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this is late, guys, it's been a few days of late workdays and business here! Hope the sheer amount of fluff in this chapter makes up for it. ;)

The first time Jazz had visited Dash and Nightlight’s home, he had followed Skydance through a nondescript door in a nondescript side-street and gone up a long ramp before reaching the locked door and internal hallway that led to their apartment. This time, wobbly on his pedes and wrapped in a thermal blanket Downshift had pressed into his hands, Nightlight led them around the front way.

Jazz gaped up at a tall canyon of apartment buildings that curved away ahead of them, Praxus’ fractal street patterns looking alien and unfamiliar under the stars. Brilliantly-coloured drapes fluttered from open windows, elaborately-patterned hangings stirring outside outer rooms that had been opened up to act almost like covered balconies, and everywhere Jazz looked there were fliers - hopping from one window to a neighbour’s balcony, perching casually on the edge of a roof, sitting tucked into an open window with a train of some light, frothy material trailing from a lap...

“Wow,” Jazz breathed, not knowing where to look next. “Did I just come in th’back way last time?”

“Yes, actually,” Nightlight said with a tint of apology in his tone. “We stopped up all but one of the downstairs doors when we moved in. The Praxians living here are all wonderful, but - well...”

“It’s more like Vos that way,” Dash piped up. “An’ Fly-by-Night checks everybody that comes in the ground door anyway.”

That was more like the watchfulness Jazz knew in other cities, so he struggled to figure out why it was so jarring. At first he thought he was just still wobbly from what he’d been through, but as he watched Nightlight ping the door open for the three of them, he realized that he’d simply spent long enough in Praxus to get used to their more open ways. He wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing.

“Hey, bit,” he murmured. “Prowl still with us?”

“Of course,” Dash grinned. “He’s standing by your left shoulder.”

“Thanks.” Jazz reached out tentatively, offering his left hand, and took it on faith by Dash’s smile that Prowl had accepted his invitation. “Just wanted to, uh, make contact, I guess.”

Dash’s gaze moved from Jazz’s face and back again. “He says he understands. ...He looks happy.” Jazz grinned and Dash giggled at both of them. “You both look happy!”

“Dashlet, sweetest,” Nightlight called, “inside or out, please, but don’t stand in the doorway.”

“Oh, right.” Dash took Jazz’s unoccupied hand and led him inside.

*

Nightlight offered to set Jazz up in one of the interior rooms for some peace and quiet. Normally ‘shut up indoors’ would have been the last place Jazz wanted to stay, but as shaken as he was, he was terrified he’d burst into tears or something right in the middle of dinner. He gratefully accepted, and Nightlight led him to a smallish berthchamber in the middle of the building, one that had another hanging tapestry and its own dispenser station. He took his leave only after extracting a promise from Jazz to call if he needed anything at all, even if it was only to talk.

“Do you wanna try the meditation thing Downshift taught you?” Dash asked as Jazz settled in. “It might help.”

“I might as well try,” Jazz answered. “I doubt it’ll work though. I’ve never been good at sittin’ still.”

“Me neither,” Dash confided, and sat next to him - on his right side, which made Jazz think - hope - that Prowl was on his left. “I’ll do it with you, if you want. Maybe it’ll help.”

“Sure, bitlet. Thanks.”

Downshift had checked Jazz over thoroughly before letting him so much as sit up in the medbay berth. He had been firmly instructed to take things easy for the next few cycles, and more gently told that he could expect some lingering unpleasantness from the whole experience. Her guide to basic meditation had been simple but thorough - just in case Jazz managed to summon up another horror, he suspected - and now Jazz settled himself as comfortably as he could manage in the pose she’d recommended. He really wasn’t all that good at sitting still, but Dash’s presence actually did help somewhat; maybe this meditation thing wouldn’t be so bad, if he had company.

Jazz shut off his visor, then immediately snapped it back online as a surge of panic jolted through him. _Stupid,_ he told himself fiercely as Dash sat trustingly beside him, his own optics dark. _Ain’t no sparkeater here to get you!_ This time he shut his visor off and kept it off, holding onto his resolve with fraying stubbornness as his sensor arrays went into overdrive.

Nothing happened - nothing leaped out of the darkness, no claws sliced through the scrolling sensor feeds. Jazz pushed overheated air through his vents and listened to the hammering of his fuel pump slowly fade away. He hadn’t managed to reach any kind of meditative state in the medbay, but Downshift said that was normal. If he managed nothing more than being able to sit calmly and find some measure of peace with himself, she had told him in a murmur, then that was progress.

Progress, nothing. Jazz sat and felt his thoughts chase themselves around in circles, listening to the thu-thump of his fuel pump. Gradually, though, more of his awareness faded from the race of his processor, and it seemed less important somehow than it had been before. Jazz sat, and listened, and felt, and when a dim shimmer of something began to haze gently into his awareness, he didn’t feel surprised.

 _Hey,_ he murmured, or maybe only hummed to himself. Either way, he felt it when Prowl’s vaguely fuzzy shape drifted to settle like silt before him, white optics clear and bright in the dreamy haze.

 _Hello,_ Prowl whispered back. _Jazz, I am so sorry. I never wanted this to happen._

 _When y’ gonna stop apologizin’ for something that wasn’t your fault?_ Jazz asked fondly, then the long dark streaks on Prowl’s sides and arm registered. _You’re damaged! Was that the sparkeater?_

 _...oh._ Prowl blinked at the marks. _Thou needst not worry, Jazz - already they are healing. Sparkmatter is resilient._ He turned his arm, and Jazz could see threads of silver trailing off the black - almost like weld lines. _I have battled the nightmares of the Underdark for a long time. Such wounds as these are not unknown to me._

Jazz frowned worriedly. _Well, they are to me. I don’t suppose there are psychopomp medics._ Prowl gave him a gently amused look. _Guess not. By the way, and if this is a rude question I’ll withdraw it, but - why are you talking like that?_

_Like what?_

_You know. Calling me ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ and all._

Prowl’s confusion cleared. _I speak the language of sparks, the Primal Vernacular. I suppose it must sound archaic to thee, but it is a language all sparks understand._

Now it was Jazz’s turn to be confused. _But it takes mechs centuries of study to master Primal Vernacular. I’ve never studied a word of it._

 _Dear spark,_ Prowl answered gently, _thou speakest it even now._

Jazz stared at him. _But that’s… I mean, I’m speaking Standard, aren’t I? I can hear myself._

 _Thy processor uses the language most familiar to thee to interpret thy words, and mine as well. But I am hearing thy words in the Vernacular. ...If a rather informal version of it to my audials,_ he added with a smile, and Jazz got the strangest inkling he was being teased.

 _Maybe I should call you ‘thou’,_ he teased back, and was surprised when Prowl’s optics softened.

 _Oh, Jazz,_ he whispered. _I would be very happy to hear such tender address from thee._

 _Oh,_ Jazz murmured, visor still offline but feeling _some_ part of himself brighten, warmth flooding through him. _So - I guess it’s not just me that wants more of whatever this is, huh?_

Prowl...fidgeted, there was no better word for it, his doorwings flicking and the path they followed blurring strangely in Jazz’s lack of vision. _I am nothing but spark and a kernel of Primus’ power,_ he said softly, brilliant optics downturned as his fingers curled together in his lap. _But if such sparks can love, then I do love thee, and I would spend my span of orns beside thee with no more acknowledgement than a rarely whispered word or a smile. ...thy merest smile is as a star to my optics,_ he added almost shyly as Jazz stared. _I would orbit that star in the bitter cold of the outer reaches and yet be warmed by it, if it be thy will._

 _...woah,_ Jazz managed, barely feeling it as his frame tried to heat at the words. Was it warm in here or was it just how his spark seemed to be trying to grow three sizes? _That’s - that’s pretty fancy for just the one date._ He couldn’t seem to stop grinning.

Prowl’s optics darted up to his face again, endearingly anxious. _Is that bad?_ he asked, and the words were such a departure from the earnest, almost overwrought poetry that Jazz couldn’t help laughing. Prowl’s shoulders hunched, and Jazz just melted and held out his arms without a second thought.

 _Aww, babe, no. Not even a lil bit._ Prowl still hesitated, so Jazz wiggled his fingers encouragingly - Prowl looked from his face to his hands like he’d never seen anything like it in his life, and it suddenly struck Jazz that _no-one had coaxed Prowl into playing before,_ and that was just too sad to contemplate. _C’mon, c’mere. Hugs make pretty much anythin’ better, an’ I want one._

 _As you command,_ Prowl murmured, a hint of teasing returning, and shifted forward from where he mirrored Jazz’s pose to sit on his knees. Each movement blurred the staticky outline he made on Jazz’s sensors, and Jazz wasn’t about to ask how he could see Prowl’s optics so very clearly when the rest of him was a stream of information from his HUD. He just didn’t want to know. Prowl’s fingertips curled gently around Jazz’s, far too careful for Jazz’s liking - he tugged, catching Prowl by surprise, then gasped as Prowl just _dissolved_ and re-formed an arm’s length away. _Woah. That’s - woah. How’d you do that?_

 _I - I apologise, I did not expect-_ Prowl looked so flustered and embarrassed Jazz ached for him. And it only made him want to hug the other mech even more, slaggit. _May I - Can I try again?_

 _Awww. ‘Course y’can, babe. Whenever y’want._ Jazz held out his arms again, and this time waited patiently for Prowl to come to him.

Prowl took his time, approaching Jazz as though touching another body was entirely foreign to him. Cool, faintly tingling hands touched Jazz’s arms, his chest, and finally his shoulders, bracing there as Prowl tentatively eased himself close to rest against Jazz’s body. He felt Prowl relax slowly, his colors dimming but losing none of their vitality, and when Prowl rested his head on Jazz’s shoulder Jazz wanted to _sing._

So he did, softly at first, as he eased his arms around Prowl with infinite care. Prowl glanced up, awed, then tucked his face down against Jazz’s neck and just clung, soaking it all in. Jazz hummed against his helm and tenderly stroked his back, below his doorwings.

 _Thou are a good hugger,_ he told the psychopomp.

Prowl muffled a soft laugh in his neck. _Say instead ‘thou art.’ The verb tense changes._

_Right - sorry. Thou art. ...thou art beautiful._

Prowl sighed softly, content and warm in Jazz’s arms. _Thou art a wonder._

 _Heh. Nah, not really. I just know a wonder when I see one._ Jazz tilted his helm, humming still, and gently nuzzled against the crown of Prowl’s shallow crest; the tender gesture won him a soft noise muffled against his neck and Prowl trying to burrow closer against his plating.

 _Would that I need never leave your arms,_ Prowl murmured, and Jazz squidged him closer.

 _Do y’have to?_ he asked wistfully, and felt it as Prowl’s doorwings began to droop.

 _My duty is not one I can lay aside,_ came the quiet reply. _Praxus’ sparks have need of me, and I will need to heal before I may counter another horror effectively. ...I would not leave thee or any other in peril, even should it mean losing what I long for most._

 _An’ what would that be?_ Jazz asked, just as quiet, immediately feeling guilty for it. But, slaggit, you couldn’t make a - a whatever kind of relationship this was out of fancy words and out-of-nowhere rescues, and he _wanted_ this, slaggitall. They needed to talk, so Jazz was going to instigate The Talk. 

Prowl hesitated, then sat up just enough that he could meet Jazz’s visor with his eerie gaze. Not so much that Jazz needed to let go, though, and his arms resettled easily around Prowl’s waist as they moved together. _I wish that I may be the cause of your smile, even if it be only once,_ he said softly, the backs of immaterial fingers brushing Jazz’s cheek. _I saw thee, and felt thy joy in life, and wished - things I barely had cause to wonder about, before. Thy hand was the first touch I have ever known, and after it I was lost. Thy good regard is what I hold most dear, and if I must leave thee now to keep it, I will. I should never wish to harm or fright thee, be it by my presence or my words and deeds. I should sooner exile myself from thy presence than bring thee pain._

Jazz’s arms tightened perceptibly. _I wish y’ wouldn’t. ...I wish thou wouldn’t._ Prowl smiled faintly. _I understand y’ gotta go. I won’t hold you or ask for any promises. I mean, slag, we just met._

 _Dost thou think my feelings are untrue, for all that?_ Prowl protested, quiet and sounding a little hurt.

 _No! No, babe, ‘course not. I just don’t wanna wind up takin’ advantage of you._ Jazz ducked his head down, searching for the words. _You’re a lot older than me, and you’re a monster-killing badaft, but you said this is your first time - y’know, feelin’ this way about someone? It isn’t my first time. I just want y’ to be able to choose what you want with optics wide open, not just fall into things and then be flailin’ t’ get out like I did the first couple of times._ He managed a smile for Prowl, who was looking increasingly worried. _Besides, you’re still injured - I can see the marks still. You should get some rest._

 _So too should thee._ Prowl caught his hand and held it tight. _And…and I thank thee. I will think over thy counsel, I swear it. Only do not send me away just yet._

 _As if I could._ Jazz pressed his lips to Prowl’s crest. _As if I could._

They cuddled quietly together for what felt like forever, Prowl’s head tucked against Jazz’s shoulder and Jazz’s arms around him, a murmuring trickle of information that felt as easy as letting his fuel pump work. Jazz nuzzled against Prowl’s helm and let himself drift, safe and comforted, and only shifted when Prowl reluctantly stirred in his arms.

 _Thou’rt yet attuned to the veil,_ he said softly as Jazz gave him a questioning look. _It may do thee harm to stay so for long without a guardian nearby, and I cannot keep thee so for mine own selfish reasons._

Jazz stared, panic surging up from under the warm contentment he’d been happily snuggled into. _Wait, y’mean another one o’those things could come jumpin’ out at us here?_

 _No, dearspark, nothing of the kind,_ Prowl reassured him hastily, pressing close again as though to shield him. _Thy spark has come through the veil and back this cycle, and thy affinity for it is but a lingering synchronicity that will fade as thy spark becomes accustomed to thy frame once again. That closeness is what bares me to thy sight, being in part on the side of the guardians still. Thou’rt seeing into another spectrum of the world._

 _Ain’t sure if that’s amazin’ or creepy,_ Jazz informed him after a moment’s pause, and Prowl gave him an anxious look. _Ain’t nothin’ you said, babe, just - the whole thing. I’m gonna have nightmares ‘bout all this. ....well. Maybe not all of it._

Prowl nuzzled into Jazz’s hand as he reached up and stroked the Praxian’s helm again, white optics narrowing in visible pleasure at the touch. _I never knew why it was the enframed touched so,_ he sighed softly. _Now I will never forget it._

 _....awww. Just. Awwww._ Jazz smiled at him, and just had to lean in and nuzzle their noses together. To his credit, Prowl only flickered slightly in surprise and docilely stayed put for this latest strange thing, and then promptly nuzzled back when he decided that he liked it.

 _I will linger until thou’rt safely re-aligned to the spectra of the living once more,_ he murmured, their forehelms pressed lightly together in a tingle of static that made Jazz’s nose itch and his sensor horns tingle. _Then I shall do as thou bade me and return to mine own place, that my form may be repaired._

 _So long as y’promise you’ll come back,_ Jazz insisted, and Prowl gave him another of those sweet, shy smiles. 

_Always,_ he promised, and brushed a kiss against Jazz’s cheek.

*

When Jazz returned to his frame, the air held the restful stillness of the off-cycle, and Dash had fallen asleep in a loose curl beside him. Prowl’s final whisper lingered in his spark - _be well, my star_ \- warming Jazz even as Prowl’s absence left a hollow ache in him. Jazz gently scooped Dash up and headed out into the main area.

Nightlight was there along with Thundersong and a couple of Vosians Jazz hadn’t met yet; his lap was filled with a roll of steelsilk and the beginnings of a tatting project. “Oh,” he said when he spotted Jazz, and set his project to the side. “Here, I’ll take him - I take it the meditation session worked a bit too well.”

“Well, if the goal was to relax,” Jazz shrugged. He slid Dash into Nightlight’s arms, and Nightlight cradled his little one close to his spark. “Thanks for putting up with me tonight.”

“Nonsense, you can stay as long as you need to.” Nightlight’s voice was quiet and soothing in deference to Dash’s slumber. “Would you like something to nibble on?” 

“Thanks, I’m good.” Jazz glanced to the side; Thundersong offered a flicker of a wave. “If it’s okay, I’m kinda in the mood for some company. Mind if I sit with y’all?”

Nightlight smiled. “I was hoping you’d want to. Let me get Dash to his hammock and I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks, Nightlight.” Jazz took the invitation of the two Vosians on the couch he hadn’t met yet - Aurora and Countdown, he was told - and sat down with them, sighing in a strange mixture of regret and relief.

It wasn’t the company he wanted, but Jazz didn’t want to be alone tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primus is generous with his gifts; but when much is given, much will be asked in return, and Prowl has a significant role to play in the times to come.
> 
> A.K.A. with great power comes great responsibility, and Primus is a hopeless romantic.

_Creator?_

Prowl had never felt so tired. He drifted down through the dark layers of Cybertron with only part of his attention on where and how; part of him felt the slow but steady filtering of energon down deep under the inhabited levels as he passed through the ancient mechanisms, energon channels dry from millennia of disuse. Deeper again and deeper still, and the faint sense of a beloved spark became stronger and clearer as Prowl sank down to Cybertron’s core.

 _Creator?_ he called again, his voice small and worn. All he had processing power for was to fall into a slow, comforting orbit around the massive spark pulsing faintly in the chamber around them, letting go of the Praxian form he held and dissipating into a formless drift of sparkmatter. _It hurts..._

Primus hummed to him in reply, a sound of innumerable voices singing softly in binary concert, and Prowl let out a shuddering sigh of his own - soaking in his Creator’s energy field and allowing himself to be held, cradled, safe.

After innumerable moments drifting in Primus’ orbit, a gentle nudge of awareness sent him into a lazy spiral. Prowl’s spark curled a little tighter in on itself, the scars left behind by the sparkeater already beginning to tingle and fade. That wasn’t why Primus had prompted him and he knew it, but that didn’t make things easier.

_Creator, I - I have failed in my duty._

A low rumble of sound answered him, neutral rather than disapproving, but Prowl still wrapped himself up in a miserable ball. _On the night of the wanderers...I spoke to one of the enframed. I should never have shown myself, I know it, but he was so- I wanted - I wanted for him to smile_ at _me instead of through me to another. I wished for him to see me. And now he is lying awake for fear of the horrors below the Underdark, his spark was near consumed, I altered his_ world...

He found himself in a gravitational eddy, spiraling uselessly with no way out of it, until another nudge rescued him and settled him into a closer orbit. _I accept your judgement,_ he said, shrinking down small into a tight, guilty ball.

Amusement rippled back, along with a query - regret?

 _I regret that he was hurt,_ Prowl answered, ruthlessly honest, _but I cannot regret our meeting, or what recently passed between us. I know how unworthy of my commission that is, Creator, but I am still a sentient spark._

He stopped when wave after wave of amusement washed over him. His god was _laughing._ Laughing, and cradling Prowl with love and amusement, and bestowing a sparkle of warm, fizzy energy on him like a Praxian kiss on the crest.

 _...oh,_ he said breathlessly. _Oh. Might this… be your blessing?_

Another nudge, this one directing him to a farther orbit, where Primus’s spark-corona wasn’t quite so strong and Prowl could rest and heal. Yet Prowl still felt caressed, Primus’s love and pride following him as he settled easily in.

 _Thank you, Creator,_ he whispered. _My love to you._

He got the distinct impression, as he dazedly settled into a half-dreaming state, that Primus found Jazz a rather nice boy after all.

*

Cycles passed. Jazz puttered rather aimlessly about in Little Vos as he recovered his strength, and wondered if Prowl was doing the same.

*

Deep below the planet’s surface, Prowl rolled in his orbit and dreamily stretched his sparkmatter out into something close to his usual form - only for a moment, he was far too comfortable to wake all the way, but the searing gashes the sparkeater had left behind were almost completely healed. Phantom limbs budded fingers just to stretch out that bit further, then Prowl collapsed back into restful formlessness as his awareness turned to his Creator. A wash of warmth wrapped him up like a giggling sparkling rolled up in a blanket, and Prowl’s field radiated love and contentment as his Creator held him.

 _My love to you, Creator,_ he sent in a fuzzy sort of murmur, not entirely awake but aware enough to be happy. The gentle inrush of love and welcome that returned washed around him sweet and slow, nothing but reassuring as he snuggled into it - it would have stayed if he had chosen to simply curl up and sleep again, but there was a faint thread of bubbling purpose under the comfort, and Prowl was just alert enough to be curious.

 _Creator?_ he asked, and the line of bubbles became a fizz of almost impish satisfaction. Primus had clearly been working on _something_ while Prowl recovered, and just as clearly He was very happy with the result. Prowl shifted in his slow orbit, working his way closer to his Creator one ring of His corona at a time, only to let out a squeak when he was rolled over and swept in close.

Primus’ speech was older even than the Primal Vernacular, despite its name; He spoke in song, in emotional binary and visions, in ways that were impossible to misunderstand. Prowl settled, ready to listen, and shivered slightly as Primus’ vision sank gently into his understanding.

 _Prowl standing in what he instinctively knew was Iacon, despite never having been to the place he could see now - standing before a brilliantly rich spark that sang with Primacy, being_ seen. _He watched himself gesture, clearly saying something to the spark-who-was-Prime, and stared in wonder as the Prime nodded and responded as though Prowl were perfectly clear. And not only the Prime - other sparks faded into the vision, all of them looking at Prowl and obviously_ hearing _him._

 _Creator,_ he whispered, clinging close with his mind in a whirl. _What - what is this? Am I to no longer be Shield of Praxus?_

A nudge of fondness rocked him on his axis, too mindful to send him tumbling. _Communicate,_ he was sent, rather wryly, and a many-voiced hum of song. _Voice._

Prowl’s spark flickered in consternation. _Am I - am I to be your voice to the Prime? But the Matrix- Hexadecimal is more senior, I-!_

The vision reappeared, showing more of the surroundings this time; Prowl, speaking to the Prime-spark, and this time Jazz was visible at Prowl’s shoulder - his visor bright with pride, a smile bathing Prowl’s earnest words in light.

Prowl flickered all over again, this time with a breathless joy that grew until he shone like a star.

 _If they see me - If I do -_ Jazz _will see me, Jazz will_ always _see me, oh Creator-!_ He could not quite tacklehug Primus the way he had seen so many other sparks do to their loved ones over the millennia, but his field swept through Primus’ as a comet throws light to all it passes. _Thank you!_

Warm love and a quieter happiness met his own, a rumbling laugh of sensation spinning Prowl around until he couldn’t tell up from down in his joy. He felt himself changing, something all through his spark gently tugging him into a new shape, and his sparkmatter burned all the stronger.

 _Go,_ Primus sang to him gently, and Prowl flared his field in gratitude and delight bright enough to light up the sparkchamber around them as he rose.

*

“Nyah! Can’t catch me, Jazz!”

“Hey, that’s cheating!”

Jazz laughed as Dash hovered just out of his reach, floating with only a bit of a wobble on his antigravs. They’d just been turned up a notch, Dash having been judged big enough to handle them now, and Dash was having the time of his life with his newfound prowess. Mostly by flying circles around the sole antigrav-less mech in their midst.

“C’mon,” Dash teased over his shoulder, “c’mon, betcha can’t keep up!”

“Oh, yeah?” Jazz chased after him, feeling a lot more like himself. The nightmares had faded after the first few nights; he’d even kept up with trying to meditate, although he never recaptured the success of his first night. He hadn’t seen Prowl again. He could only tell himself that the psychopomp was resting and healing.

And that Jazz wasn’t wilting from missing him.

“All right, you little flying troublemaker,” Jazz mock-growled, groping for the back of the sofa. “C’mere!”

He leapt, the blanket that had been on the back of the sofa now held out in his hands. Dash wasn’t skilled enough at dodging yet to get out of the way, and was captured in its soft folds with a laughing shriek of protest. “Jaaaaazz!” he yelped.

“Whazzat? I can’t heeeaaar you,” Jazz singsonged, tickling the flailing bundle through the blanket. “You’re gonna have to speak uuuup! ...oh, hey, Nightlight. You okay?”

His host just looked at him from where he leaned against the doorway, his optics almost white and unable to even pretend to a smile. Jazz instantly left off tickling Dash in favour of catching him up and untangling him, and Dash squeaked as soon as he could see again. “Carrier?”

“There’s - there’s been word from Vos,” Nightlight told them unsteadily, and the bottom dropped out of Jazz’s tank. Nightlight didn’t talk about Vos - nobody in the little enclave did, aside from mentioning this goodie or that landmark without any of the emotional context attached. “The Winglord- The Winglord Oversoaring went offline last night.”

There was a breathless pause, one that Jazz had no idea how to fill. “The, uh. Who?”

“The ruler of Vos,” Nightlight told him heavily, his shoulders bowing under the weight of the words. “And his Heir- his Heir was the one who- ...there’s civil war in the city.”

Dash squeaked again just under Jazz’s audial; he snuggled the little one absently in the blanket, and wasn’t surprised when Dash wriggled out of his arms to go to his carrier, or at how Nightlight hugged him tight.

He _was_ surprised when Nightlight straightened, his optics bleak, and said “Dashlet, I need you to go pack some of your toys. We’re going to the Temple for a few days.”

“Huh?” Jazz blinked, then blinked again as Dash scowled but didn’t protest. “Wait, what? Why?”

“‘Cause the cousins are horrible,” Dash informed him flatly, squirming down to stomp to his room. “It’s all _their_ fault.”

Jazz transferred his bewildered gaze to Nightlight as the older Vosian began pulling out various odds and ends from the storage units, stowing them in his subspace with shaking efficiency. “Night,” he said plaintively, “How come you have ta up an’ go just ‘cause some bigwig back home went offline? You know someone important back there or what?”

Pale hands paused, and Nightlight looked around at Jazz with an expression of fixed-on resignation that barely covered his panic. 

“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Unfortunately, the runaway heir happens to be my idiot brother. The Winglord was my great-grandsire, and I won’t risk someone coming here trying to use me _or_ Dash in a power-play I want no part of.”

 _Oh._ Suddenly a lot of tiny, niggling details fell into place. _Not so much some bigwig back home as some bigwig that came to Praxus...frag me. Wonder if a Winglord’s anything like a Prime, or a Senator._

Nightlight continued pulling things into his subspace, pointedly not looking in Jazz’s direction, while Jazz thought things over. He folded the blanket in his arms once, twice, neat and sharp as a soldier’s kit, and tucked it under his elbow. “What do you need me to do?”

Nightlight’s helm came up, optics baffled; Jazz smiled. “Well, you helped me when I needed it. I figure it’s my turn.”

“Jazz, I - the thought is appreciated, but I can’t ask you to involve yourself.” Nightlight turned back to his packing, a bitter note to his voice. “The safest place for you right now is nowhere near us.”

“Maybe, but I couldn’t live with myself if I turned my back on you now.” Jazz moved closer and put a hand gently on Nightlight’s gauntlet, making the bigger mech still. “You saw me through my nightmares. You opened your home to me, a stranger. You’re my friend, Night. Do you really think I’m the kind of person who’d abandon a friend?”

Nightlight’s mouth trembled, a sheen filming his optics. “N-no.”

“Good.” Jazz squeezed his hand. “Then starting now, I’m part of your security detail. Slag, I’ve worked as a bouncer before.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but Nightlight whirled to grip his arms, optics pale and too bright. “The Highest Family is nothing like a drunk at your club!” he snapped. “They are manipulative, and relentless, and destructive and cruel and- They will cut your life to ribbons and think it’s funny! I won’t try to send you away, Jazz, but for Solus’ sake don’t you dare take them lightly!”

He was shaking on his pedes. Jazz brought his arms up, careful and slow, and bit by bit drew the taller Vosian into a hug. “I won’t, I promise,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. But I mean it when I say I’ll stand between you and anyone who tries t’ hurt you. Or Dash.”

Nightlight rubbed at his optics with the back of his hand, his other arm still resting around Jazz’s shoulders. “You’re… you’re very foolish, Jazz. Very kind, and I’m glad I met you, but very foolish.”

Jazz snickered dryly. “I’m the mech who fell in love with a psychopomp. I got no regrets, here.”

As though summoned, Prowl came up through the floor just in time to hear that declaration. Nightlight blinked his optics blearily back online, took one look past his tear-wet fingers at the faintly glowing apparition rising through the floorplates, and jerked away with a strangled yell, thrusters firing and dragging the smaller mech behind him like Jazz was a youngling himself.

“I mean thee no harm, skydancer,” Prowl said quickly, spreading his hands and staying perfectly still; his gaze slid inexorably to Jazz, or at least to the visor peering wide and bright from behind Nightlight’s protective hovering. “My business is not with thee or thy loved ones.”

“Prowl?” Jazz breathed, his spark spinning fast in its chamber. A sweet, shy smile was his reply, and that was all the proof he needed. Jazz slipped out from behind Nightlight - sweet as the impulse was, he wasn’t afraid and didn’t need to be protected - and padded closer, his sensors turned up to their maximum sensitivity. “How - how’re you doin’ that? .....am I all veily again?”

Prowl laughed out loud, a startled burst of sound that, from the thumping-scramble noises, brought Dash running back along the hallway. “Thou’rt entirely safe and mortal,” he assured Jazz with a twinkle in his optics that Jazz instantly wanted to keep bringing out. “And I am - perhaps a little more so than I was before.”

“Prowl!” Dash burst into the room, breathless. “Prowl, you’re back, you’re all shiny again!” Impulsive as ever, Dash threw himself at his friend - and was shocked when Prowl rocked back with the impact, his sparkmatter actually resisting Dash rather than the youngling falling right through. “...Prowl, you’re _huggable,_ ” he declared breathlessly, and proceeded to suit actions to words with renewed enthusiasm.

“What in the world,” Nightlight murmured, hands curling uselessly before his mouth. The poor mech looked ready to cry rather than cope with even one more thing, and Jazz couldn’t blame him.

“Your guess is good as mine,” Jazz muttered back, “but I sure as slag ain’t complainin’.”

Prowl scooped Dash up and cuddled him close with the relieved air of someone who had wanted to do that for _so long._ “Bright spark,” he whispered, “dear bright spark, I am so happy to see thee as well.”

Dash pulled back just enough to pout at him. “We have to stay at the temple ‘cause of cousins.”

Prowl blinked faintly. “I have business at the temple at well. If thy carrier approves, might I accompany thee?”

That eased Dash’s pout into something closer to a smile. “Sure.”

“Excellent.” Prowl let Dash slip down, then straightened and glanced at the adults. “Jazz. I would speak with thee alone, if thou wilt.” He offered a hand, and Jazz took it without stopping to ask why. His hand felt cool and solid, and tingled faintly, but Jazz could see the contours of his own hand through Prowl’s.

“Right,” he said, just a little distracted, and gave Nightlight a blinding smile. “Uh - yell when you’re gonna leave? Please?”

Nightlight looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to start knocking his helm against the nearest wall or burst into tears, but scooped up Dash when the littlebit flew to him and cuddled up close. “All right,” he managed, holding Dash tight. “I want to leave as soon as possible, so - so don’t be too long.”

“Got it.” Then Jazz turned and towed Prowl out of the room at speed - he wasn’t at all sure if Prowl’s pedes were touching the ground, and from the lack of resistance he suspected they weren’t even coming close. He hurried them both into the comfortable little berthroom he’d been staying in, closed the door behind them, then turned to face Prowl and promptly forgot how words worked. Prowl tilted his head slightly, doorwings fanning gently back and forth, and gave Jazz another of those sweet little almost-wistful smiles - Jazz wasn’t going to let that stand, though, and while he’d completely lost how to words he still remembered how to hug, and promptly went and did just that.

Prowl let out a startled little noise as Jazz threw his arms around the psychopomp’s mostly-solid form, then slowly, wonderingly let his arms settle around Jazz’s shoulders.

“I can hold thee,” he murmured, and Jazz’s smile shone like the sun.

“An’ just see if I’ll let y’go,” he replied, and nuzzled into the crook of Prowl’s collar faring. Prowl _squeaked,_ and Jazz just about thought his spark would ignite from so much happiness at once.

“This suits me full well,” Prowl whispered, and this time it was Jazz’s turn to squeak as Prowl’s hand slid over his helm. He shivered all over, hard enough that Prowl pulled back in alarm. “Jazz? Have I done something wrong?”

“N-no, really the opposite,” Jazz managed shakily, hands braced on Prowl’s hips. “Um, th’ sensor horns are a sweet spot.” Prowl looked blank. “Uh. They feel really good when someone I like touches ‘em? In an interfacing sense?”

The confusion cleared; chagrin took its place. “I apologize. Frames are more complicated than I expected.”

Jazz chuckled and pulled closer, pressing their forehelms together. “I’ll be happy t’ teach you anything y’ wanna know about _my_ frame. Just, later, or Nightlight and them’ll leave without us.”

“Ah. Yes.” Prowl managed a smile again, and kept his hands firmly on Jazz’s shoulders. “I have much to accomplish, Jazz. Primus did not give me this gift solely that I may touch thee, though I think the prospect pleased Him.” A flicker of surprise crossed Jazz’s visor, and Prowl hurried to clarify. “I must speak with the priests and with the new Prime regarding Cybertron’s future- Might I hope that thou wouldst come with me? I know thou hast no ties to Praxus, but…”

A dusky black finger landed gently on his mouth, and Prowl visibly almost lost himself in the feel of living metal before Jazz spoke and his voice drew Prowl’s attention like gravity. “I got ties to them I care about. And I’ll follow you anywhere, Prowl.”

It took a moment for Prowl to be able to reply, his attention laser-focussed on the tiny vibrations and shifts of Jazz’s finger against his lips. Prowl’s hands twitched on Jazz’s shoulders and his optics flickered - minute imperfections on the surface of Jazz’s plating pressed against his sparkmatter, Jazz’s field humming light and fluid with emotion against Prowl’s spark... 

His lips parted, Jazz’s plating sliding against the fizzy tingle and _frag_ if Jazz wasn’t getting ideas right now, and - Prowl faltered, optics flickering again but this time to dart over Jazz’s expression as though memorising it.

“I would bring thee to Primus to show him how wonderful thou art,” he murmured, and Jazz’s spark lurched in his chest for a totally different reason. “But there is much to do, and a lifetime to do it in.” Another of those sweet, hopeful smiles, and this time Jazz grinned like his own star was rising just for him. “I would fain make a life with thee, Jazz of Polyhex.”

“An’ I with thee,” Jazz replied, and Prowl shimmered all over with a light all his own.

*

Nightlight was pacing by the time they emerged, anxiously flicking through whatever it was he’d stored in his subspace while Jazz and Prowl were talking; the Vosian gave Prowl a rather leery look, but said nothing other than “Are you ready to go? The Temple is expecting us and my trinemates are already there.”

“Ain’t that kinda counter-productive?” Jazz frowned, ambling over to him with Prowl close behind. “I mean, if y’re worried about somebody snatchin’ you or yours up to Vos. Seems like it’d make more sense ta travel together even if it is just to th’Temple.”

Nightlight gave him a pale, mirthless smile. “Now you’re getting it. But Fly-by-Night is going to be shadowing us on the way there, and I have an open comm with one of the officers. We’re not going to rouse the whole city, just keep tabs on each other.”

“Thy fears are well-founded, Grace of the Twilit Stars, but thine own will keep thee and thy little one safe,” Prowl said softly; instead of reassuring him, Nightlight actually flinched at the title.

“Please don’t call me that. I don’t know how you knew that and I don’t think I want to know, but I really, truly can’t cope with anything else right now. We need to get to the Temple, and _then_ you can give me more things to fritz about. Ah!” This time to Jazz, raising his hands as if to ward off anything his friend might have said. “ _Please,_ Jazz, I _can’t_ right now. Later. All right?”

“Sure thing,” Jazz sighed, and waited for Nightlight to scoop Dash up out of his toy chest before heading for the door.

*

It was a furtive sort of group that made its way to the temple. Prowl followed from underground, guessing that his appearance would draw more attention than Nightlight wanted and relying on his sense of their sparks to keep him on track. Jazz understood the reasoning, but - maybe Nightlight’s nervousness was transitive, but having seen and touched Prowl so recently, it made Jazz just a little anxious to have him out of sight. He stuck close to Nightlight’s side, making faces at Dash to distract them both.

“You were so upset when we came to live here the first time,” Nightlight told Dash, striving to keep his tone light. “It was ‘no!’ to everything for a while. Do you remember that?”

“Nope,” Dash answered, with the kind of studied nonchalance that made Jazz suspect the little one wasn’t being completely truthful. “I remember meeting Prowl though.”

Nightlight gave his little one a pale smile. “I really am sorry I assumed you’d made up an imaginary playmate, you know. Not that there’s anything wrong with imaginary playmates, but I should have listened better.”

“S’ okay,” Dash shrugged. “I would’ve thought I made him up too if he hadn’t kept coming to visit.”

“He wh-” Nightlight vented hard. “Later. I’ll deal with that later. Look, there’s the temple.”

They slipped into the Temple by a low-level side door that Jazz added to his mental map of the place. Another black and white Praxian Enforcer was waiting, this one bigger and bulkier than the others he’d seen so far; he was also the first Enforcer Jazz had seen in the entire city-state carrying a weapon, a rifle the size of a small cannon cradled easily in his arms. Their little group got a nod and a scan thrown out behind them, then the door slid shut and the Enforcer turned to Nightlight.

“Barricade,” and a thumb jabbed at his own chestplate. “Riot squad. Might not be a vault, but you’ll be staying in the core of the Temple. Trinemates are already there.”

Nightlight’s wings twitched unhappily, but he nodded without another word. “Thank you, Barricade. Are you going to be escorting us?”

Another short nod, and Nightlight let out a sigh. “Then I need to ask one more thing. Jazz has something he needs to speak with the elder priests about - there’s going to be someone else joining us shortly, and it’s probably going to be rather alarming, but he won’t mean any harm.”

“Name’s Prowl,” Jazz cut in. “He’s a psychopomp. Got made visible somehow and he’s gotta talk to whoever’s in charge.”

Barricade barely blinked, though a sudden flare of comms activity made Jazz’s sensor horns tingle unpleasantly. “No problem. Got a guide coming down to take you; might have to wait a few minutes to get them there.”

“Who, Night and Dash?”

Heavy doors lifted slightly in what Jazz was suspiciously sure indicated amusement. “The elders. They’re working. On their way in now.”

“...y’mean they’re Enforcers too?” Jazz asked, incredulous, then flapped both hands at Barricade’s inscrutable headtilt. “Y’know what, never mind. Doesn’t matter. Prowl’s gonna be here-”

A bubble of pale golden light shimmered close to Jazz’s pedes; he startled despite himself, but Barricade only set his pedes more firmly and shifted his grip on the gun he carried, aiming it at the soft glow.

“...right now,” Jazz finished weakly, as Prowl rose up through the floor to stand beside him. Nightlight buried his face in his free hand, Dash bouncing in his arms.

“Hi Prowl!”

“I can’t,” Nightlight said faintly. “I really can’t just now.”

“....Barricade, Prowl. Prowl, Barricade. This’s why we gotta see the elders. ...uh, please.”

Prowl inclined his head to him. “An honor, Barricade.”

“Yeah.” Barricade’s gaze lingered on Prowl a little longer than the rest of them; Jazz figured that meant he was impressed. “Nightlight, Dash - this way.”

“See you later,” Dash called as Nightlight turned with him to follow Barricade.

“You too, bit,” Jazz answered.

“Until we meet again, bright spark,” Prowl added, and blinked, doors fluttering, as Jazz took hold of his hand.

“You ready for this?” he grinned. “Just walkin’ into the room they’re all gonna be real impressed.”

“I do not mean to intimidate anyone,” Prowl demurred, his attention still on their joined hands. “I only hope my words are equal to the task. I have spent so long observing the enframed, not interacting...”

“No time like the present to practice.” Jazz’s hand tightened on Prowl’s briefly. “These mechs have every reason in th’ world t’ listen to you - from what I saw in th’ archives, you’re like an old friend t’ them. One they don’t get t’ see very often, but they know they can trust.”

Prowl put his hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a glowing little smile that wouldn’t be hidden. “Thou knowest always just what to say,” he said. “I thank thee, Jazz.”

“Welcome,” Jazz grinned, nudging his shoulder. He straightened as the doorchime sounded and two priests entered the hallway: one he didn’t recognize, but the other’s familiar owlish blink made him laugh.

“Well, speak o’ the Unmaker,” he announced. “Hey, Collodion.”

The archivist beamed at him, moustache twitching with his smile. “Hello to you too, youngmech! My word, you seem to have found a reason to trust the old archive files.”

Jazz grinned back, then melted just a bit as Prowl hovered shyly beside him and the two Praxians - well, kinda stared. Collodion found his voice first, one hand resting over his spark and bowing his head to Prowl as the other Enforcer did the same. “Guardian. From one Enforcer to another...well. Thank you for what you do for us.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Prowl said softly, and both enframed Praxians watched wide-opticed as he copied their respectful gesture. “Thy dedication saves more of Primus’ children each cycle. My place is beside thee.”

“Awww,” Jazz murmured, and the younger Enforcer’s optics widened all over again as Prowl’s doorwings fluttered.

“Thou’rt to escort us to thy elders, is that correct?” Prowl asked, and the younger Enforcer recovered himself enough to nod.

“Yes sir. They’re gathering in the larger meeting room, if you’ll please follow me?”

“Sure thing,” Jazz said cheerily, and Prowl’s hand slipped into his as Collodion led the way. Following a curving path towards the centre of the Temple, the younger Enforcer waved them into the door as they reached it, and took up a watchful parade rest outside as the door closed behind them.

*

Jazz knew going in that the discussion between Prowl and the Temple elders would be far over his head. He resolved to be Prowl’s emotional support, and that is exactly what he did, silently holding Prowl’s hand while the psychopomp informed the elders of Primus’s condition and Cybertron’s future. But when they were alone again, he was gonna have _so many questions._

“Is Primus awakening, then, to send you to the new Prime?” asked one of the elders.

Prowl shook his head. “Primus’s slumber lightens, but He sleeps still. He must - the Chaos-Bringer would appear at once were he to awaken fully.” The elders glanced at each other and Prowl smiled sadly. “Yes, I am afraid Unicron is as real as you are. The time when his path will cross with Cybertron is nearing.”

Now he had Jazz’s attention as well as the elders’. Of all the things Jazz was really, really hoping was just a sparkling-story! “What must we do?” another elder asked. “Can our astronauts turn or deflect him somehow?”

“I would it were that easy,” was the answer, strangely calm. “The shift in the city-states’ fortunes brought about by the new Prime’s leadership, and that of his Lord Protector, is a brave start. Cybertron will be better able to withstand Unicron’s attack if these trends continue.” He paused, gathering his thoughts as the elders flickered messages back and forth between them. “Yet only one weapon exists that can end the threat of Unicron, and one child of Primus who will be able to wield it.”

Doorwings relaxed out of their poses of alarm. “You mean Optimus Prime, and the Matrix,” one Elder said.

“The Matrix, yes; but Optimus Prime is the Bearer, not the Chosen. Sending him against Unicron would mean only his death.”

Jazz’s vents hissed sharply - he wasn’t the only one whose systems reacted audibly, and the Praxian elders looked ready to take on the Unmaker themselves given half the chance.

“There are millennia yet before Unicron draws near,” Prowl told them, far too calm for the tumult in Jazz’s spark. “What now matters most is the rebuilding of relations between city-states, and the increase of resources for all. _We_ are the best hope against Unicron, and fighting amongst the enframed will do nothing but diminish everything we hold dear. Cybertron itself, the living and the dead, would be put in grievous peril. It would do the Chosen no good to be found and singled out now, but the Bearer and his Protector may yet save us all from a worse fate than any can imagine.”

“Some of our most sensitive have been having visions,” another of the Enforcers murmured. “Nothing clear, but they wake from them shaking helm to pede and talking about fire, and some terrible thing eating the world. If that was a metaphor for the consequences of the city-states breaking apart...it would explain much.”

Prowl was nodding, his expression serious. “I must speak with the Prime,” he said, “but there is something he must do first that will affect greatly what comes in the orns ahead.”

The other Praxians glanced at each other, but Jazz beat them to it - more to the point, and less respectful by far. “The frag is so important that something like _Unicron’s_ gotta wait til after? This is bad, Prowler!”

“He must speak with the Winglord of Vos,” Prowl said, and a note of finality rang through his voice like a prophecy. “He must speak with the Winglord, and what befalls Vos will echo through Cybertron itself.”

*

Nothing more concrete than Prowl’s - foretelling? Flat out refusal to budge? - came from the meeting after that, and Jazz had to content himself with waiting until the Praxian elders had all decided to settle into a watching peace. It wasn’t a happy decision, and Prowl had only been able to tell them that it would take millennia for Unicron to reach them, and no they certainly should _not_ ship the Prime off to wave the Matrix at him instead of waiting around.

Jazz kept his own counsel as they were escorted to the core suite that had been marked for the Vosians’ use. The picture Prowl painted was sobering when added to what Nightlight had told them earlier. If Cybertron’s existence depended on the city-states working together, or at least not being at one another’s throats, then civil war in Vos threatened to doom the planet. Yet any action taken by outsiders that Jazz could think of could only make the situation worse. The Iacon-Kaon-Praxus alliance was still in its fragile fledgeling stage, still a secret in the hands of the Praxian Elders and the other city-states’ diplomats - and now Jazz’s too - and who else could be strong enough to settle the Vosians down?

He half-collapsed on the berth as soon as the suite door closed behind him, visor dim. He felt Prowl sit down beside him, one tingling hand resting on his knee. “I have worried thee unnecessarily,” the psychopomp observed, low-voiced. “I apologize.”

Jazz reached to take his hand. “Rather know an’ worry than go on in blissful ignorance,” he said. “Rather you have someone t’ lean on.”

“Indeed, thy presence was a great comfort.” Prowl tentatively threaded his fingers through Jazz’s. “Hast thou questions? I might be able to put some of thy worries to rest.”

“Well…” Jazz shifted to prop himself on one elbow. “You mentioned a ‘Chosen’ - someone who was gonna destroy Unicron. Any idea who that is? Seems like we oughta find this mech and make slaggin’ sure they’re kept safe ‘til the big moment.”

Prowl glanced to the far wall - beyond which, Jazz knew, the Vosians were gathering. “I am well aware of who Primus’s Chosen is. Believe me, Jazz, he is in the safest place he could be.”

“Okay. Okay. I guess y’d know, babe.” Jazz vented hard, hot air hissing from anxious systems. “‘Sides, it’s gotta be pretty awful waitin’ an’ waitin’ to do this huge thing for millions of years with everyone expecting y’to. I wouldn’t wanna do it.” A sudden awful thought struck him and he leapt upright on the berth again. “It ain’t me, is it? Please please say it ain’t me.”

“No! No, Jazz, do not think it. The Chosen is safe and unaware and very definitely not you.” Prowl reached to hold his hands, optics wide with worry, and Jazz let out a sound like a leaky boiler and flopped over in Prowl’s lap. The squeak Prowl let out in turn was totally worth the brief panic.

“That’s one frag of a relief,” he said heavily. “No offence, Prowler, but _no._ ”

“None taken, love. Not at all.” Prowl tentatively reached over to stroke Jazz’s helm, and Jazz purred happily and proceeded to flop more thoroughly in Prowl’s lap.

“Y’all can just keep doin’ that forever,” he mumbled, and heard the smile in Prowl’s voice as he replied.

“Gladly, love. Most gladly.”

*

As it turned out, it wasn’t all that long before the unrest in Vos came to an abrupt halt. Nightlight and his little core family vanished from the Temple for a while, and only Prowl’s reassurances worked to convince Jazz that they really hadn’t been mechnapped on the way to Iacon and were being spirited away Vos after all. Prowl was looking rather pleased with himself, in fact, which only began to change when they heard that the priests were putting together a diplomatic mission to visit Iacon themselves.

“This is what you got the shiny upgrade for, isn’t it?” Jazz pointed out, opening his arms in invitation to his nervous partner. “Primus wouldn’t have given you the job if he hadn’t been sure you could handle it.”

“That is… that’s not quite how Primus operates, Jazz.” Even as he settled in Jazz’s arms, Prowl chose his words with especial care, having spent some time with the priests working on updating his diction for modern-era listeners. First lesson: contractions. “He doesn’t play strategy-games with his followers, moving us around as He sees fit. He only gives us the tools and allows us free will to use them.”

“Then you got all the tools you need.” Jazz squeezed Prowl gently. “You got the knowledge, you got the words, and you got the backup - and I include myself in that, in case y’ wondered.” He grinned, and Prowl softened in his arms.

“Thou art a wonder,” the psychopomp said, and that was one habit of speech Jazz wouldn’t mind if Prowl never broke. “I truly do not know what I would do without thee.”

Jazz purred, visor dimming as Prowl stroked his cheek. “Then I’ll just make sure you don’t have to find out.”

“I am glad of that.” Prowl’s hand smoothed over the sharp edge of Jazz’s cheek, then a kiss brushed along the path of his touch. Jazz wriggled happily, and Prowl chuckled. “Though I am about to bring you to the Prime and his Protector. I hear they are both quite fearsome.”

“Bring it on!” Jazz declared, and swooped in for another kiss.

*

Shortly after that, Jazz had begun to question his decision.

“Mech,” he hissed, sidling in closer to the nearest enframed Praxian. “Mech, this place is givin’ me the crawlin’ jibblies. The frag’re we goin’ now?”

The Enforcer - one of Collodion’s assistants - pulled a sympathetic face of her own in answer. “This is the hallway into the main receiving chamber of the Primes, I think. Iacon doesn’t like other city-states seeing its blueprints, and you can take that literally or as a metaphor if you like. The priests here are...sort of secretive. It’s all _supposed_ to be intimidating, if that helps.”

“Not so much,” Jazz muttered, giving the towering collonaded hall a mistrustful glare. They had been received in the Iaconian Prime’s Complex with a confused sort of ceremony - apparently visitors from other city-states’ religious communities was still something of a novelty, and nobody in Iacon was entirely sure which set of protocols to use to receive them. It was a hodge-podge mix of paralysingly dull formality and a more forthright, open system of checking IDs and showing them into the next room along. Jazz huffed and ambled along at the edge of the Praxian ranks, peering into each dramatically shadowed alcove they passed. “Was it like this every time somebody from the Temple came t’visit?”

“I wouldn’t know,” his informant replied. “The Iacon Temple hasn’t given or accepted any invitations for orns before all this started - the new Prime really does seem to want things to work out. From what I heard about him, I was almost surprised that he wasn’t standing on the dock when we arrived.”

“The dock? Why?”

The Enforcer was about to answer, but then they crossed into the receiving chamber proper and their voices would have been swallowed by the high ceiling anyway. The Prime’s receiving chamber was lined with a double row of pillars, leading the supplicant - and the architecture may as well have been spelling out “YOU ARE A SUPPLICANT” - up to a dais where an empty throne held court. Beside the dais, a small table with attendant chairs and neatly-stacked datapads served the purposes of a blocky worker-model who Jazz assumed to be the Prime’s assistant. He also couldn’t quite decide how big the mech was: the table was a touch too small for him, but the surroundings were so large and grand that they would have dwarfed a Supreme-class, and it was all playing merry hell with his perceptions.

The mech stood to greet them. “Welcome, my friends,” he said, and though he was speaking normally, the hall made his deep voice boom. “Please, make yourselves comfortable - at least as comfortable as this room allows. I apologize for the display, but there appear to be few rooms in the complex suitable for visitors that _aren’t_ ostentatious.”

The leader of the envoy chuckled, ascended the dais to take the red mech’s hands. “We won’t hold it against you, Optimus Prime, don’t worry.”

Jazz’s jaw dropped. _“That’s_ the Prime?”

His informant looked amused. “What were you were expecting?”

“An aft on a throne,” Jazz muttered, just a hair too loud not to be heard. He winced at the words the millisecond they left his vocaliser, then almost leaped out of his plating as a sound very like a huge engine backfiring burst into echoes around the room - the Prime snorted a laugh too loud and too powerful to contain, one that wouldn’t have sounded at all out of place in Jazz and Ricochet’s club when the workers were out to party. A big blue hand clapped over his optics as he laughed, the sound echoing seemingly from the sheer pressure of the amusement spilling out.

“I like him!” the mech declared, as Jazz tried to both remember where his knees were and get control over the huge grin threatening to take the top of his own helm off. “An honest mech, but not a Praxian priest, I assume - that must make you Jazz.”

His visor was going to short out if he stared any harder. “Uh - yeah. How’d y’know who I was?”

“I do pay attention to who is going to be in these meetings,” the Prime told him, almost managing a solemn expression if it weren’t for the amusement tugging at his generous mouth and the glint in his optics. “Besides, I was told you were a key part of the delegation in your own right.”

The strangled noise Jazz made at that would haunt him later, Jazz was sure. “Uh. Wow. I sure wasn’t plannin’ to be, but - well, here I am! You, uh, got any kind of proper stuff t’get through, or do I say hi right now?”

The Prime laughed again, and this time around almost all of the Praxian delegation were outright grinning - the rest were managing to hide their smiles. “No, no, I try to do away with too much formality. It gets in the way of things actually getting done. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jazz. I’m Orion.”

Jazz was already reaching to take the Prime’s outstretched hand when his audials caught up to his frame. “Wait, Orion?”

“Yes.” The Prime’s - Orion’s - optics were stubborn and steady, his voice brooking no argument. “Optimus might be the name others give me, but _my_ name is Orion. I will not hide where I came from, or forget who I was before the Matrix.”

The hand that took Jazz’s was huge, roughened by work, warm with power and perfectly gentle. Jazz looked into bright blue optics and decided, then and there, that he liked Orion too.

Not _only_ because the mech laughed at his stupid jokes, but that was certainly a point in his favor.

“Well, then let me introduce you to my other half in this lil’ delegation.” Jazz turned with his hand still in Orion’s, smiling as the glowing psychopomp hazed gently out of invisibility and stepped forward. “This is Prowl, he’s a psychopomp. Prowl, Orion.”

Psychopomp and Prime sized each other up, Prowl’s doorwings perked in interest and Orion’s optics bright with unasked questions. _He hasn’t been Prime all that long,_ Jazz remembered. _He’s changed so much in the world already that it’s easy to forget, but it wasn’t that long ago there was no Prime at all. Guess Prowl’s his first psychopomp too._

Prowl was the one to break the silence first, offering a slight bow. “It is an honor to finally meet you, Optimus Prime,” he said. “I have heard many great things about your works.”

Orion nodded in return. “I’m the one who is honored, although truthfully I deserve very little of the credit for that. Others did the hard work; I only cleared the way.”

“That is worth more than you may ever know.” Prowl hesitated. “If you are not - _aren’t_ standing on ceremony, might I be permitted to also call you Orion?”

“I would like that very much.”

Prowl’s smile then could light the room, and Jazz just knew that a small part of him was cheering. _Look, look, I can socialise!_ Prowl darted a glance over at Jazz as he readied himself to speak, white optics glowing from both nerves and determined purpose, and Jazz beamed back at him with pride radiating out like a halo of his own. Prowl’s optics widened, ever so slightly, then the glow that made up his plating strengthened and he seemed to grow more confident.

“We have much to discuss,” Prowl said firmly, joy and purpose turning the faint halo around him golden; “And much to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a lot of fun, guys, but we're ready for a break. XD Stay tuned for some occasional filler, followed by the Next Big Project at a date to be determined.


End file.
